Celia talked with pinched nasal certainty from behind her back teeth, the sound of concrete bees trying to make honey. There was always a distinctly petty greed underneath her boho-pharaoh eyeliner, a slakeless stare that manifested in morose mannerisms. She was always trying to dig things out of people. ‘Tell me about your dreams,’ she’d say. ‘How did you grow up?’ Not where but how. ‘I bet that hurt.’ A twisted harrow’s smile. Always digging. Sentimental treasures to be unearthed and polished into parsimonious jewels then wagered against the owners esteem. People were terrified not to love her.