Though her voice creaked like the worn armchair in which she sat, Elsie still had a piercing gaze that conveyed a playful sharpness within. "Sit with me, child."

I stopped folding the sheets and perched on the edge of the bed opposite her slightly hunched frame, smoothing my aqua tunic bearing the care home insignia.

Waited.

And waited.

It sometimes took a while to gather her thoughts and process information, yet other times she was focused. Moments of lucidity, they call it. Her moments were still frequent and outweighed the confusion, which was a small mercy. We still played cards on occasion. And she could still win.

Cocking her head, she studied me despite the milkiness in her irises. "I've not seen you before. Are you new?"

I smiled. "Not exactly."

"Are you sure? I'd remember if I'd seen you before." She bared her falsies in a grin and tapped her skull. "Not lost them all yet."

"I've been taking care of you for a little while now, Elsie. I'm Danielle. Dani."

Consternation added another crease to her brow. "Why do I need taking care of? The office isn't dangerous." She paused. "Looking forward to a nice cup of tea when I get home."

I didn't reiterate her house had been sold to pay for care fees. She rarely remembered. And sometimes it's better to let them live in their reality rather than ours. Avoids upset.

"Would you like a cuppa now?"

She lifted a finger to her nose like it took immense effort and itched. "Danny's a boy's name. You're too pretty for a boy."

I blushed. "Thank you, Elsie. You're not so bad yourself."

She gave a wry smile. "All things considered."

"All things considered, of course."

Turning her head to the window, she stared. "I used to be a real firecracker, you know."

"With Harold?"

She chuckled, more a gurgle. "Before Harold."

"No!"

"Oh yes. All sorts of mischief."

The corners of her mouth lifted and the faraway expression refocused as she rolled the thumb of one hand over the joints in the other. The skin rippled beneath her touch and looked as if it might tear at any moment. "Have you ever been in love, child?"

"I… I think so. It's—" I searched for the word and simply opted for, "—complicated."

She nodded and turned to me. "Love's rarely simple. Does he know how you feel?"

I cast my gaze to the floor before meeting her stare. "Well, he is a she. And no. I don't think so."

Elsie tutted. "There was none of that in my day."

"I'm sure there was. You just didn't hear about it."

"Piffle. Two tunnels and no train? It’s not natural."

The alarm went off in the corridor outside, and the door of the office opposite scraped open. Probably Penny falling out of bed again, or Reg clamouring for attention. I let its two-tone cadence blare for a short while before standing and crossing to the door, in case they needed help. "Back in a minute, Elsie."

The alarm stopped, I paused and backed away, folded another sheet on the nightstand and returned to sit on the bed.

I let her continue staring out of the window, her mouth opening and closing with tiny smacks as whatever remained of her tangled synapses filed and retrieved information. Sometimes perfectly. Sometimes missing.

It's hard to imagine what it's like in her head. In any of their heads, really. Elsie is a mild case compared to some upstairs. The end stagers like Jean, babbling incoherently, believing each sentence is a perfect stream of consciousness. It’s as if each word in her vocabulary was filed in a labelled box and someone had knocked them all over, then put the words back in the wrong boxes.

It was heartbreaking to think that all those memories and thoughts were intact but there was no way to articulate them in a manner that anyone else could understand. Such a waste of knowledge.

Shortly after starting my placement here, I decided to write my thoughts down. Keep a journal so I had records in case the worst came to the worst. It was actually kind of therapeutic. And helped me sleep better. Unloading the day onto paper was like having an impartial ear. A best friend who would always listen and never answer back or try to fix me. Who would dutifully record my innermost thoughts about life and work stresses, achievements, goals, my sexuality, how I’d developed feelings towards Paige, everything.

I pray she never finds it and reads it, or she’ll know some of the kinky thoughts I have. The things I want to do with her. Where exactly I want to place my kisses. My fingers. My tongue.

I shivered.

Elsie rearranged the tartan blanket in her lap. Smoothed the corner and lifted her gaze, almost looking through me. "When's Harold getting here? He's always late."

I went cold. As much as I loved the job, I hated this part. The lecturers say it's better not to sugar coat it, or use idioms. It's simpler and aids understanding to be direct. But I still couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe by the final year it would be easier. "Elsie… Harold's no longer with us."

Her lip trembled and she jerked her gaze to the window, voice hollow. "When? How?"

"Nearly two years now. Heart disease."

I waited as she silently mouthed the words, rolling them around her fractured subconscious, just like she does every time. "Heart disease? Dis-ease. Such a curious term. How can a heart not be at ease when I love him so?" She paused. Inhaled shakily. "Loved him."

From the top pocket of my tunic I handed her a tissue, waiting for her to finish dabbing her eyes. "You don't stop loving someone just because they're gone."

She bit her lip and nodded fast, whispering, "I know," before clearing her throat. "You're wise beyond your years, …"

She tailed off but I knew better than to interject. Gave her neurons time to make connections, until it became clear they wouldn't. "Dani," I offered.

"Danny. That's a boy's name."

"Danielle then."

She brightened. "It suits you. Do you dance, Danielle?"

I laughed. "At nightclubs, yes."

Her hands stopped rubbing together and she swished one in the air. "Not all that gyrating, dry humping nonsense on telly." I stifled a giggle at her cut glass pronunciation. "Proper dancing."

"Not proper dancing then, no. Do you dance?"

She sighed. "Only in my head now. The mind is willing but the body hasn't kept up. We used to foxtrot, Harold and I. British, mind; not that American claptrap."

"Of course."

"We met on the dance floor, you know. Two wandering spirits united by the love of music." The faraway gaze returned and I wondered if it was always this way as people age: nothing to do but reflect. Live in the past. Nothing to look forward to. "Funny how things work out. Robert introduced us."

"The Robert?"

"My beau before Harold."

"Mr Mischief?"

She gave a sharp laugh. "The very same."

"Dare I ask?"

A flash of colour filled her cheeks in stark contrast to the tousled mop of silver hair that brushed the cream collar of her blouse. She appeared in stasis and for a heart-stopping moment I feared she'd suffered another mini-stroke. Then she breathed. "Maybe the PG version."

I nodded. Let her compose the story.

"I used to have hair like yours. Long, wavy locks. One time we were wandering around an Irish castle, hand-in-hand. I forget its name. Bally… Bally something. Anyway, we climbed the spiral staircase in one of the towers. Studied the display boards and artefacts on the first floor. The group ahead of us left, and we heard others in the room below, but we were suddenly alone." She smiled. "I don't know what came over me. I tugged him close, spun him round, got on my knees, unbuckled him and… went to town."

My jaw dropped. "Elsie Brampton!"

Her eyes were alight at the memory. "Oh that wasn't all."

"Really?"

"He wrapped his fist in my hair and tugged me onto him, until we were interrupted by the people below. So we scurried upstairs to the next floor, Robert behind me pawing my legs all the way. When we reached the landing before entering the room, he leaned in and whispered for me to take my knickers off."

I said nothing. Just stared.

"Oh we were young and reckless. So I did it. He asked so nicely. I handed them to him to pocket, and wandered around the room, barely registering the information on the boards. When the group moved on, we kissed as he explored under my skirt."

"Wow."

"Yes. We were interrupted again. And so it went on. Crossing the ramparts with no underwear. Into the next tower. In each room we lingered until we were alone, stealing moments together." Her hands were wringing overtime as she soothed the joints. "The last two rooms were extra special." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I let him have his way with me. Against the wall."

She straightened, very slowly, and eyed me. "Castle stone is cold."

"I bet it is!"

"We didn't finish there, though. Another interruption." She shifted her gaze to the window again, and I wondered if she was about to lose her thread and ask how long it would be before the dinner she'd just had.

Being so brazen in public wasn't something I'd ever considered, let alone done. But if the fizz bubbling my veins and dampness between my legs was anything to go by, her story—PG or not—had unexpectedly awakened something. I shifted my posture, squirming a little.

Thankfully, she picked up the story where she left off.

"I remember walking the grounds in a daze. Must have been May or June because we had no need for coats. The castle courtyard was dotted with wigwams, and the stench of burning peat from within them was cloying."

The smell explained why the story was so ingrained when other pathways had eroded. The limbic system helps form incredibly strong links, aiding memory recall.

"When nobody was looking, we ducked into one of the tepees. It was smoky and stung our eyes but the need was greater. He laid me on the bench and took me right there to completion. I was biting down on my finger to keep quiet, just a thin layer of tent material between us and passers-by." She shook her head. "Reckless."

"He sounds like a keeper."

"Mmm. Robert had a knack of… well, I'm not sure what it was… fuelling my inner demon, perhaps." She snorted. "We got into some real scrapes."

"If that story's anything to go by, I can only imagine."

"I often wonder what would have happened if I hadn't met Harold. He's a lot more… measured than Robert. Risk averse. When's he turning up?"

"Oh, Elsie… Harold has passed on." I winced. Another idiom. Luckily I wasn't being assessed today. She still had enough capacity to understand the meaning, a solitary tear catching on each wrinkle in her cheek as it rolled and dripped to the blanket.

Her thoughts consumed her and I knew better than to prompt. Just waited until she carried on. "Regret is too strong. I don't regret marrying Harold one iota. But there is always that 'what if'. What if I'd said yes?"

"Robert proposed?!"

"More than once." She wiped her cheek then returned to massaging her hands. "He was persistent, I'll give him that."

"I presume you had your reasons for turning him down."

Her head lolled to one side a little, the mental strain of continuous recall showing. Her tongue peeked out to lick at dry lips. I needed to fetch her a drink shortly; her swallow was still intact, unlike some of the residents who required pegs. "Robert and I were… purely physical. We hared from situation to situation, a whirlwind of lust. Sex, sex, sex…"

"Sounds terrible."

Her false teeth clicked as she smiled. "Terrible, yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them. “It was fulfilling. Exciting, yet… empty somehow. Like we both knew the storm would eventually blow itself out. We let it run its course, and ultimately, I chose love and companionship over lust. And I'd do the same again in a heartbeat. But I'd never miss the opportunities I had with Robert either. They shaped my wonderful relationship with Harold."

“You’re a regular softy aren’t you?”

“No doubt.” She extended a bony finger and tapped my chest. “Follow your heart, child. Nothing else matters but happiness.” Her own chest heaved and she let out a sigh that seemed bigger than her frame could accommodate.

Watching her worrying the skin of her hands and gazing into nothingness somehow affected me more than it had during previous chats. I see deterioration in them all, day by day. Nobody comes here to get better; there's no cure, it’s just a waiting game. Families gradually visit less frequently, yet claim they love the people I care for on their behalf. The ones I bathe, feed, assist to dress and put to bed.

Do they really love them? Or only visit out of guilt? Do they use our service as respite from the daily chore of managing someone whose needs are complex and highly dependent on external assistance?

I often wonder if the elderly recognise their moments are being stolen from them, one by one. Will mine go the same way? And when? Rose upstairs is only in her late fifties. Early onset. She can barely lift a cup on her own now. Elsie had twenty more years than her before she was admitted. Twenty more years of love and companionship. Twenty more years of no regrets. Of living the life she wanted, not the one imposed upon her by circumstances or family.

Reaching out, I put my hand in hers. Stroked the delicate skin. She was cold. Lack of movement, I expect. She watched my thumb tracing a path across the wrinkled webbing between her fingers and slid her gaze up to mine. “Are you new in the office, child?”

I chose to lie. “Yes. I’ll be taking good care of you, Elsie. My name’s Danielle.”

She nodded. Mouthed Danielle. “That’s a pretty name.” She nudged me with her elbow and gave a conspiratorial grin. “I bet you have all the boys queuing up, eh?”

If only she knew. The nights I'd lain awake with my roommate just a couple of metres away, desperate to feel her against me. To stroke her skin. Whisper how much I want her, then kiss and nibble my way down her body and show her I mean it. Two tunnels it might be, but my fingers would make up for it as I fluttered my tongue across Paige’s clit and listened to her whimpering my name.

I craved to give her pleasure the likes of which she'd never known. To twist my fingers into her sopping pussy, thumb her clit and hear her lose control in my grip.

When the tables were turned, I wanted to surrender to her too. Let her take me however she wanted. Fast, slow, teasing, restrained, lips, teeth. Everything.

Night after night I'd acted out my fantasies, fingers skimming my wetness, paper thin touches mimicking the breathy sighs of her dancing tongue. Then, rolling over so my face was buried in the pillow, I'd introduce the digits to my sopping slit and plough them inside, as daintily as I could so she wouldn't wake to the rhythmic squeak of the bed springs. With one hand massaging a breast against the sheets, my other palm would crush my clit and I'd stifle the cries, fingers buried deep, imagining it was her kissing and biting and tonguing my orgasm into existence.

Lying there, a quivering wreck in the afterglow, was as much torment as it was release. I knew I couldn't jeopardise our friendship no matter how much I wanted to hold and kiss her. It would be impossible sharing a room with someone who hated me or, worse, if she transferred and I never saw her again. I didn’t even know how she felt. Whether I was being ridiculous and it was just a crush I’d grow out of. A phase,

I had no idea if she held similar fantasies. She’d never had a boy over, to my knowledge. Nor a girl. We’d been room-mates for just over a year and we’d occasionally seen each other naked when we changed. She was lithe. Wiry with pretty breasts, smaller than me in all dimensions. But I’d never heard her masturbate. Maybe she didn’t do it. Or did it in the shower rooms, one hand pressed to the tiles, the other digging between those shapely thighs as the steam and spray absorbed her need.

I wondered if she’d ever heard me. And what she thought if she had. Did she harbour secret wishes to join me too? Or had she ignored it, embarrassed on my behalf for not having an outlet other than being consumed by my own fingers and thoughts?

Placing Elsie’s hand back on her blanket, I stood. “How about that cuppa?”

She beamed. “I’d love one, thank you, dear.”

I folded the remaining sheet and stowed it in the chest, then went to fetch her a drink. Finished my shift an hour later and returned to the halls of residence via the corner shop.

Paige was in, studying. She looked up when I entered, smiling at me, hazel irises twinkling in the lamplight. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“How was your shift?”

“Good thanks. Nothing outstanding. I need a shower though. You got much left to do?"

She shrugged and swiped a fingertip across the band of freckles on one cheek. "Probably half hour before my brain's full."

"Cool." I dumped my bag on the bed. Grabbed my towels, shampoo and conditioner, and headed for the communal shower room down the hall.

After stripping and letting the water and products splash my body, I stood there thinking, periodically depressing the shower plunger button to supply another thirty seconds of spray. Was I going to live my life always wondering? Never taking chances? Or was I going to risk it for a shot at… whatever the hell I thought I wanted?

Follow your heart.

I let my fingers wander. Cupped my modest breasts. Pinched the caps over and over until they ached and my jaw dropped open. Leaned back against the plunger so I didn't have to keep pressing it, and ran fingertips down the contours of my sides. Drifted them inward and twirled them through my mound of hair that led to my awakened slit.

With a finger pad, I traced its outline. I was slick, the film detectable even under the cascading water, and I dragged up through the folds to hone in on my nub, circling it and gasping. Thoughts of cradling Paige's head as she explored my slipperiness span unchecked. My touches mimicked her tongue fluttering against my pussy, each brush of my clit making me jolt until I was panting on the edge of climax.

I kept myself there for as long as I dared, tapping, digging and biting my lip until I mashed my palm against my mound and came, whispering her name into the steam.

Letting the water peter out, I shakily stood, licked my fingers clean and wrapped myself in the largest towel, my hair in another.

I shuffled back to the room. Perched on the bed edge and roughly towelled my mousey blonde mane. The gradual shaking motion dislodged the body towel and it slithered south a fraction before I caught it. My eyes flew to the desk to check Paige was still engrossed in her textbook.

To my surprise, she quickly averted her gaze from my direction, back to her book. My stomach somersaulted, rocketing adrenaline through my body. Could she really have been checking me out, or did I imagine it?

I trembled in the towel. Flicked my gaze to the desk. Caught her flitting her eyes between bed and book. A fleeting flash, but it was there.

Quivering inside, I took a deep breath.

"Paige?" She looked up and turned to face me. "Do you, ummm, wanna go out later? For a drink. I've heard good things about that new place up the road that does cocktails. But if you don't want to, it's fine. Just wondered really. I mean, we don't have to. I stopped at the Offy on the way home and picked up a bottle so we could start here or not go out at all or…"

I trailed off. Stopped. Watched her smiling at me. "What?"

"Nothing. You're cute when you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

She smiled again. Ran her gaze up me, from ankle to eyes. "Give me ten minutes to finish this chapter, 'kay?"

I breathed out noisily. Hadn't realised I'd been holding my breath. Silently prayed I was doing the right thing and this was a step towards treading a similar path to Elsie. Living. Loving. Seizing moments. With a swell of confidence, I purposely let the towel slip to my waist. Caught her sidelong glances as I dressed, my heart skipping each time she paid me attention.

My pulse thundered. This is it. The new start I've been looking for. I can feel it. My journal is going to be brimming. Many years from now as I gracelessly age, I aim to have endless memories to keep me company. They'll be my solace. My library. A bank of experiences to reflect upon as I sit alone in a drab room, relying on some virtual stranger to look after me while my yesterdays mercilessly fade.