The lifflin watches you. That’s what it does. Eyes the size of apple pies, the ones in the thin boxes, the ones with the flabby crusts and tiny pastry apples that smell of childhood holidays: canvas, bite cream and rain. Each eye bigger than its brain. Seeing is more than understanding. For the lifflin, seeing is all.
It sees you fumble for keys. Too much wine, your motor skills stalling, you drop them, turn to your phone screen for feeble light, scour the pavement, half falling yourself in the long slow insuperable descent that presages sleep.
The lifflin watches you.