It became clear to me that my aged companion, Crisp, did not like anything to do with dirt.
“Sludge,” she said as we crossed the bridge and looked down on another drainage pipe that was in the process of gathering a unique form of bacteria judging by the colour and consistency of what had once been clean water.
“I have nightmares about falling into a pool like that,” she said, “the stuff sticks to me and try as I might I can’t get rid of it plus there’s always a smell, and that sticks as well. I wake up wanting a shower and at two in the morning, it’s very disturbing.”
“Explains the shower running at that time,” I say thinking of other places like the village café where I’d prefer to be.
“I’d hate it if I thought you thought I stank,” she said.
I knew better than to ever affirm that statement.