I see a much younger incarnation of Mneme, running up the stairs in a short twirling dress that I realise now she never would wear.
I am worried about our son, I have not heard from him for a while. I fear he is taken to drugs.
I am in Mneme's bedroom painting over a blue black patterned wall, with white emulsion paint; perhaps a mirror had been glued to the wall for there is a rectangular residue of glue and sealant.
I spill some paint onto the bedding, then as Mneme enters the room and moves towards me I spill even more paint onto her blouse.
There is an immense sexual tension building within me, and I can feel reciprocation. Yet tomorrow I have a must attend meeting to attend, many miles away. I need to leave now, but should I throw that all away for the sake of a night of passion.
The blue, for it may be significant, was a mid to dark blue, not royal blue nor Prussian blue by any means. But a blue of one of the my grammar school houses whose name presently escapes me ( I was in Armitage, a full on strong yellow).
Also the blue of the blue and black of the shirt that I bought to wear for work in Dublin, and that I also wore to the following years Christmas party.
That was the last time me and Mneme danced and sweated so intimately and effusively together.
The black rectangles are more than shapes, though only outlines they remind me of castles or minarets. There is definitely a touch of antiquity.
Yet the importance, or implications and meanings, of these well built structures, that are now reduced to irregularly broken lines, eludes me entirely.