Sie ist ein Model und sie sieht gut aus.

Her mouth and cheeks had a smudged look. The red of them jumped out from her pale white face.

"I want to go out".

She said it as a statement. I knew- she'd put the makeup on to fool me. More fool her. She hadn't ate properly for a few weeks, just sipping water and hacking coughs. She'd hallucinated through the night a few times, and I'd sat with her as she told me she was cold but felt too warm to touch. I knew she was coming down with cabin fever. She was one of those that like to walk every day, to draw, to do, and lately she hadn't had enough energy to hold a pencil. She'd been sleeping upstairs, or dozing on the sofa in the kitchen, smiling and listening to our conversations that went on without her usual additions. She seemed seraphic, with her alabaster look and sing-song pronouncements- watching from her vantage on the cushions, or sleeping. It was only mumps- she was prone to it at this time of year, but I wanted to wrap her up and feed her broth. She'd wasted away; she was athletic, and now she looked bony, enhanced by the pallid quality of her skin. She'd made a brave attempt at dressing appropriately- she'd put on a long white dress over a black polo neck jumper, odd socks and tights, and a cardigan. She looked like a homeless person. A victorian waif, with her messy red hair. I laughed.

"You didn't have to put makeup on for my benefit".

She shut her eyes and smiled back. She walked across the kitchen as if on stilts, and her legs seemed to collapse her into a chair. "But I do feel better, look at me. I'm up".

"you're most definitely sitting".

"oh come on. You must have stuff to do, let me come on one errand, or feeding the ducks or something".

"I've got to pop to the shop. You know, we can feed the ducks".

She stared at me, glassy-eyed. "Now?"

She had reason for surprise. I knew I didn't usually do anything that wasn't strictly of use. Duck feeding came second to shelter running, to cooking and meetings and things. But I wanted to do something for her, and I knew that duck feeding would be a big thing.

"Now, if you want. If you put on your boots, and a coat and scarf and hat and your gloves".

Her face broke with a smile. She leant forward and rocked, making the effort to stand. "Save your strength, I'll get them."

She sighed, but resigned herself to her own incapability and lay back in her seat whilst I collected the items. I was looking for a bag and turned round to see her standing, wavering slightly as if she were being blown by the wind. I took one of her arms. The knobbles on her wrist put me in mind of a silver birch tree I'd climbed as a child- a branch had given and snapped. The shock must have registered, because she said, "don't worry, I won't snap". We made our way to the front door. She was clinging to my arm, but I didn't feel her weight on me. We made our way to the shops in silence, over the bridge. She had put me in mind of the Artful Dodger, the way she used to move, but now she was hunched- more of a Fagin. We were collecting glances. An old woman supporting a younger. She was far taller than me, and her posture and shakiness drew mutters of, "drug problem". She tried to stand taller, and sniffed. I regretted making her wrap up- she was wearing a red scarf, purple gloves, an orange hat and the odd socks. She looked like a drug addict, truth be told. People probably thought I was clinging to her to prevent her from running for her next fix, not that she was in a fit state to run anywhere.

A few times I thought she'd faint- her eyes seemed to roll up, and she'd clutch my arm tighter, but when I asked if she was OK she whispered, "fine". And she would be. We were out in ten minutes. She coughed, a deep resounding cough, and said, "let's head to the canal".

The walk to the bridge was on the way to the house, and all I could hear was the stopping of her boots on the pavement, and the breathing, the little swallow she did to try and prevent a cough. When we got there, her knees knocked inwards and she sat on the nearest bench, loosening her grip on my arm a little. I proffered her water. Her cheeks were really red now, no need for the lipstick she'd used as blush, though her lips were blue. Her forehead was cold, and she was sweating. I put my hand to her forehead. She smiled and sang, "other people break into a cold sweat, if you said, but these are the best days of our lives". Just those two lines, very soft in the dusky canal light. I laughed softly myself and sat next to her. We threw the bread in, and watched, and she leaned against me. "Thanks". "No problem darling". I flushed. It didn't matter, she couldn't see me. I heard the grin in her voice, "you didn't have to take me, but you did. You're very clever and calm and you make everyone feel safe, you know. You never ask for judgement or compliments, because it's not your style, but lots of people do, I mean, I have in the past, not from you but from others, and you never do. I can't imagine you stooping to it. I think that's fantastic, that it seems as if you don't care how anyone judges you, but you can still care about people." I flushed again. I never knew quite what to say when she complimented me. All of it was given in a rush, with stops and starts. "I've embarrassed you. Sorry". "No, darling, you haven't". I meant it. I put an arm round her waist, feeling like I was embracing cloth and air. She sagged closer into me, and put one of her sapling arms round my shoulder. Her elbow joint cracked as she did it. Her head rested on mine. I could feel the coolness of her cheek, I could feel her breathing, in and out. I wanted to stay like this for a while.

"Are you getting cold?"
"No, you're keeping me warm".

I smiled. And we sat.