Paul, being her lover, tried, with his voice, to rouse her.
She’d liked his voice. But not so much now it seemed.
He spoke her name with a frog in his throat. We giggled. Sally did nothing.
Then he was nose to the carpet, ear next to her’s.
He stroked her hair.
He spoke her name, shook her tenderly, clamped her wrist and concentrated.
We looked worried.
Inspired, he took her bag from the floor, tumbled it.
He rummaged the contents, a compact mirror catching his eye.
He breathed into the glass, wiping it with his sleeve. Then, laying on his ribs, next to her, he held the mirror near her mouth and, touching her cheek with his, peered into the glass.
Hard to tell.
We held our breaths. We watched. We waited.
(He didn’t see evidence of breath).
Oh, Sam said. That means she’s dead.
Paul, nodded slowly; we’d all seen around a hundred films.
He straightened her dress – it was crumpled round her knees – and he kissed her on the forehead, twice (for some reason) and said, I guess.