Spent a while this week watching a blind man and his guide-dog cross the same road every morning, and wondering how much of what any of us think we’re watching, we’re actually just making up.

Lizzie isn’t based on anyone in particular — she’s an amalgam of every certainty I’ve heard passed off as instinct, every ‘you know the type’ that ends up telling you more about the speaker than the type. She thinks she’s watching a love story play out across the road from her. She’s got three of her own behind her by the time this one starts, and not one of them taught her what she needs to know to read this particular morning right.

Read it on Kindle, alongside nineteen other stories

G. H. Schreiber

20/09/2026