As much as she doesn't think about it – with all the running around the studio, with all the cutting of this film, with the smell of dust and cardboard and ink clinging to her clothes like smoke – it is all she thinks about; it is spooking her from a little machine in her little apartment.

When she woke up that morning, that morning exactly four days ago, her finger hovered over the 'delete' button and time just stopped.

The cars kept on rushing outside her window and the sun kept on rising in the sky, but Spencer Carlin was immobile. Where the world moved, she remained static.

And she pulled her hand away that morning, that morning four days ago, and allowed Ashley Davies to linger. Again.

And she leaves the message on there still, to taunt her from afar and to remind her of what used to be.

And it does all those things, whether she listens to it (over and over with glasses of wine and dry sadness) or whether she shuns it – cold shoulder, nose to the grindstone.

A disembodied voice, a ghost – that's what Ashley is, a slightly metallic echo due to technology… but still distinctive, still rough around the edges, still Ashley.

"Still Ashley-fucking-Davies…" Spencer says aloud, the only one working this late and miles of negatives about her feet, the cool white light illuminating images of dark-skinned death.

And, in Africa, her sorrow seemed so small when placed beside this mountain of neglect, this steep climb from what one sees and what one knows should be, from living and dying.

And in Africa, for minutes on end… just minutes, just seconds sometimes… Spencer remembered what it was like to forget Ashley Davies.

They have wars. You have a mansion. They have genocide. You have drunkenness. They have real problems. You have silly, stupid insecurities, Ashley…

But that was then and this is now and L.A. is not Africa and L.A. brought them together as much as it tore them apart and that message has turned up the volume once again, bass overwhelming everything else that she might attempt to hear.

Spencer turns away, clicking off the lights and locking the doors.

She tries to think about the way the jeeps would careen off the roads, stirring up tornados of sand before coming to a stop in some nameless township. She tries to think about the lacquered eyes looking at her camera, tired and beaten gazes captured forever… not just with film, but in my mind.

She tries to think of cool nights and hot dawns, she tries to think of the stench of rot and of gunpowder – she tries to gather up those moments where life didn't revolve around lost love and broken promises… and it makes her feel that much worse about herself.

Again.

And home is not inviting, so Spencer walks right past her own door.

She doesn't do this often, doesn't care to get involved, doesn't want to keep courting disappointment.

But there is a message on a machine, one that she can't get rid of and one that she can't listen to anymore, so Spencer decides to do a little running of her own tonight.

It is music and it is deafening and there is sweat on this dance floor and Spencer easily glides within it, moves sure and face placid.

And hands tend to grip, tend to get eager, tend to want what she has on offer – but Spencer does not shove them away, no sneers and no polite declines tonight. She welcomes it and turns her body into something wild – sharpness to her teeth, claws no longer retracted… she comes undone, rocking back into a soft chest, into smooth arms.

Oh, these curves are not yours…

Betrayal comes in swiftly and Spencer rushes to beat her own heart at this race, trying desperately to be the tortoise and the hare and to finally win some peace.

She spins around and puts her lips against a woman's cheek, tongue peeking out to taste everything – from salt to limes to arousal – this woman is sweet putty in Spencer's hands tonight.

Oh, this skin is not like yours…

Taking it further, stumbling from the crowd and to walls that know a lot about one-night-stands, Spencer guides this woman – a babe in the woods – telling her with a thrust of hips where to touch and where to go to work, head pushing hard against brick.

It is a trick, though, and Spencer Carlin is getting too old for illusions.

Because they are always over too soon and they are always frayed at the seams.

Illusions crash down harder than reality and it hurts more, too.

You, on the couch where Glen would play his video games and where my father watched basketball. You, on pins and needles and staring at me like I am some kind of dream. You, beautifully framed by low-lights and darkness. You, ripping words from your chest and giving them over to me, finally…

You, when you grin and when you take my hand. You, when you kiss me and when you hold my face, treating me like crystal. You, telling me you want me in a billion different ways.

And there it is, that button getting pushed and Spencer screws her eyes shut and memories tear at her and this woman below has no clue, too fast and too inexperienced – like all the rest.

But this is familiar, this letdown after the thrill. And it may be rare for Spencer to do this – to let intoxicated breath to coast over her indifferent bones – but it is this after-effect that never goes away.

This sensation of walking away, of pushing back at these startled girls and cutting through the nighttime air and of knowing that there is no one she is going home to… no husky laugh, no tanned flesh, no fathomless brown eyes… this is achingly familiar.

Just a message on a machine, that's all Spencer is staggering back to, an empty loft filled up with dastardly longings… and she'll shower, she'll try to sleep naked and not miss that old warmth beside her, she'll dream in jolts – between what should have been and what is going to be… and Spencer will leave Ashley's voice there tonight, every second bringing the opportunity to rid herself of this yolk.

And every second, she'll still hold on a little tighter.

You, curls and waves of messed up hair. You, voice hoarse and cracked and soft. You, tender lips on my palm and looking into my eyes. You, in love with me as the sun awakens the rest of the world.

Or was that just me?

Was I the one revealing heart-breaking gentleness, was I the one falling deeper and deeper, was I the one who just couldn't stop looking at you enough to see the forest for the trees?

Was I the one who discovered real joy and then ran fast the other way, back to judgments and back to ancient friends and always away from you? Was I the one who gave up after wanting so badly to give in?

But you hold me close and I melt into you and I think we were both falling, I think we were both so in love with each other and didn't know how to beg for more time…

Spencer stares at the answering machine, blinking away the night before and bare feet cool against the floor. And as much as she thinks about it, as much as she wants to pick up this phone and try to reach Ashley again, as much as she wants this girl – this woman, this rock star, this fragile and nostalgic vision – to call once more and say more this time and they might talk…

'Coz seven years is a long time. And the past is the past. And you can't spend your life just waiting for lovers to return, for lovers to apologize, for lovers to love you.

She must drag her feet forward now, out of hallways and locker-rooms and childhood homes.

Out of the rubble of relationship – the cracks in which they slipped, the damage that they inflicted… Spencer must pull herself up and survive.

And she hesitates and she swallows hard and she pushes down, the last of her tears crashing down as Ashley's voice is removed from her life.

Again.

**** **** ****

TBC