Sandra knew the song instantly, with just that first note.

Regrets collect like old friends

Here to relive your darkest moments

Sandra slowly shut her eyes. Took a deep breath. Then opened her eyes and looked deep into the reflection in her bathroom mirror. Oh this song. This song. How can someone who has never met you write a song that describes exactly how you're feeling? When you can't even articulate it yourself. Or maybe don't want to try. How can a song belonging to Florence and her Machine actually belong to her?

I can see no way, I can see no way

Black mascara, not brown. Yes, black. And thick black eyeliner. Brown is for old ladies. So black. And a lot of it. To match the just right jeans. And the shirt. And the boots. Hmmmm. All black. Maybe the blue scarf? Yes, the blue scarf. Gerry says it makes her eyes smile. Whatever that means.

But she does know what Gerry means about her eyes. It's not the scarf. Shit. Gerry. It always comes back to Gerry. That sly lopsided smile. The crinkles (no, wrinkles) right in the corner of those eyes. That croaky laugh. Focus Pullman! See the full picture. That haircut. The cigarettes. That anorak. An anorak for God's sake. Who wears an anorak now days? A 60 something over the hill copper is who. Gerry. Gerry.

Once again, Sandra looks in the mirror. Licks her bottom lip. Then bites it. Looks down. Maybe tonight. Maybe tonight he will notice. She could say something. Not even say something. A touch would probably do it. A hand on his thigh. Or two fingers idling on his cheek, exactly where she'd normally put the unremarkable (but oh so remarkable) friendly hello kiss.

She knows she could. But she also knows that she won't.

It started out as a game. Everyone woman likes to be pursued. Especially if you've never had to do the pursuing. So she just assumed the time would come where the hand would be his and the thigh hers. She even knew how she'd respond. She would look him dead in the eye, chin down. Run one fingertip lightly over the back of his hand towards her. And as fingernail made contact with skin, she'd say "Are you sure you can handle me, Standing". Then he'd make a terrible joke about having some fun while 'vertical'. But neither of them would laugh as they would move closer together, bit by bit by bit.

But it never happened. Lord knows there had been enough opportunities over the years. Drunken and otherwise. Gerry had capitalised on those sorts of opportunities right before her very eyes. Just never with her. So she'd kept her hands to herself and her tongue still. And she tried not to look Gerry in the eye on days when she felt like she did today.

But she knew she'd let her guard down before. He must have seen it. When the chardonnay or the scotch or a couple of dirty old pints had blurred the world. Given her usual black and white outlook a dim peachy glow. He was perceptive. A good detective. He must have seen it. Yet he'd never even hinted at making a move. They didn't dance around each other. His eyes didn't follow her as she walked across a room. She was just his Jack or his Brian.

Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa

Sandra looked up quickly. Avoiding her own gaze this time. This is where this song - her song - let her down. She doesn't want to be uplifted. She doesn't need inspiration. Shake it out? How. Why. She grabs the remote. Pushes the back button. And looks herself dead on in the mirror as that first note sounds again.

Regrets collect like old friends

Here to relive your darkest moments

I can see no way, I can see no way