“My parents aren’t home,” says my friend with a mischievous glint in her eye.
My 10-year-old mind imagines peeling the plastic from the sofa, its opaque whiteness the same colour as the dead skin I like to peel in long strips from a summertime sunburned leg, deliciously slowly so it doesn’t tear, releasing the suffocated colour beneath.
I turn to her bright-eyed.
She pulls an LP from its sleeve.