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There was water coming down the passage. Marc walked into the bathroom. Alley lay back, head to the ceiling, water overflowing. A gurgle came from the taps as the water level choked them. She sat up quickly as Marc walked round her front, causing a splash in the flow. Bottles of shampoo bobbed on the floor. Marc lifted the toilet-seat. Alley lay back, lowering her head so that the water submerged her upper-lip. "I saw someone with the same hair colour as you today." Alley blew bubbles like farts off the surface. Below the film. Marc lowered the lid, tried to flush. There was too much water. "But what would you call that colour?" he continued. She stretched her feet over the edge. Slid below the water. The splash reached the practically dead Venus Fly Trap. It was a low windowsill. "You look taller with your hair like that," Marc said, looking into the mirror at the bridge of his nose. "One seven," said Alley, coming up for air. Marc sat down on the toilet with his elbows leaning on his thighs. He could only see the outline of her body and her plastered head. He clasped his hands. Looked at the window. The windowsill was covered with flies. "Mmm," said Marc. He noticed that the matches were wet. There were faint trickles of moisture on Alley's skin. She pressed her body into the shape of the bath, the small of her back hugging the bend. Marc couldn't decide if it was sweat or water. She waved a fly off her face. The fly landed on Marc's shoe. He started jigging the tip of his foot causing ripples in the water. The soles squidged. "Could you stop that?" asked Alley as she started soaping herself. Marc stopped. He twitched the edges of his lips slightly. Sat as though he wasn't going to say anything. "I left the gas on," he finally said, stood up. He passed a gaze as though still transfixed on nothing. "Don't forget the matches," she called after him.