Jet black was the colour of the sky. Jet black was the colour of her heart. Jet black was the colour of his hair; the pupils of her eyes. Jet black, the air between them, the breath of each lung in, out, in, out. White washed, the jet black thoughts in his head; paranoid delusions of pill-spiked drinks and blood-filled sinks; a knife in the back; a ruthless attack? A lurid affair? The jet black air, once fresh, turned staler, but not at all paler. Her lungs exhaled a cough of tar. The drags on her cigarette dragged on. She got up from her chair, in this slightly squalid café, her head nearly hitting the low ceiling. She flicked her cigarette to the cold stone floor and without glancing down, lunged her stiletto to the ground, impaling the flame until it gave up hope of life. Jet black smoke wafted to his face; jet black ash floated from the flame to his feet. She closed the pack of cigarettes on the table and dropped them into her bag, walking the jet black catwalk she imagines every time she's with him, between this table; the table they always sit at; and the ladies', crossing her legs slightly as they moved in front of one another, fashion-model-fashion. Her skirt was short enough to show this to its full effect, but long enough to maintain a veneer of dignity. Left all alone, again, he looked out of the window he always looks out of when she leaves him, and regarded the jet black sky. Rain began to fall.
      It was a record, jet black vinyl, played again and again; each time they meet, the same rhythms, the same crescendos and diminuendos, the same shifts in tempo; he thought this and gazed out at the street, the rain drums. Accelerando.
      In the toilets, she stared deep into the mirror, into her reflected jet black eyes, the way she always does. Again and again, and the light is the same, the clothes are similar, the setting is the same, nothing will ever change.
      But this time, her face, her face looked different... older. Less undeniably, overwhelmingly beautiful.
      In the road, cars passed; silver, white, dark blue, red, dark blue again, silver, green. He listened to the rhythm, and suddenly everyone was marching to it.
      The sky filled with lightning. Suddenly, the air was denser, closer, oppresive.
      Her eyes, in the corners of her eyes, there were lines. This wasn't meant to happen. She is immortal and inhuman. She cannot be touched, marked, she is a myth, a face on a billboard. She wasn't born, she was the result of marketing. She's not doomed like the rest of us are. She's more than that.
      He was restless. There was nothing different about this time, nothing new, nothing to upset him; he shouldn't be restless. He's never restless. All he wants is for things to be the same, and they are, although it doesn't make him happy. People in the street were running away from the rain. Why? Everywhere's the same. They all had their pattern, and none of them are going to find their way out. There isn't a way out. This is not a decline. He would to sit here, and she would come back, and they would stand, and they'd leave, his arm would creep round her waist; he knows exactly the texture of jet black velveteen. He knew how everything would be, how it will always be.
      Everything was dark. His mind was darkening.
     In the road, the cars were red, silver, bright blue, dark green, dark red, metallic blue.
      In the mirror, her eyes, they were glistening.
      He was standing. The world was dark. He was at the door; the grimy handle was alive with electricity. He was outside and at once the rain soaked him, his clothes were plastered fast against his skin. Maybe every time was different, and he never noticed. Maybe there were warning signs, and he missed them. The road, the cars, the lightening, blurs; silver, green, yellow, blue, red, blue, blue, silver, white.
      Her eyes were full of tears, she didn't feel anything, she was watching TV, she has seen this before, a face on a dingy screen, a melodrama of mascara-blackened droplets spilling down pearl white cheeks.
      Blue, red, silver, red, white, silver, green, black. The record skipped, and suddenly -
      He was standing, and he was moving, and he was flying - the car - he hit the ground; pain, jet black, tore across his body, wave upon wave.
      The face of the woman in the mirror breaks apart. She sobs, and sobs; her vision blurs and falls.
      In the street, the man sees everything from above; the darkness boils, and surges, and floods down between the buildings and over him; a sound screeching and violent, it erases all memory of rhythm or tune; it is rushing and overwhelming, this is complete, jet black.