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Description
One hundred and twenty one days later, at around the same time of early morning, I was staring at the ceiling. An hour ago, I was in a smaller bed, less comfortable with pillows that tangle my hair. But I love it there. I need to go back.
When I got home, I slipped the disc in and let it run. Laying there I listened to the score, the menu running over and over.
I slept.
I slept and felt hot water and lips across my mouth. My fingers in his hair.
Beyond my head and through the wall, my neighbour coughed constantly. It used to keep me awake. One day last summer I sat in the garden and watched her smoke 20 cigarettes in two hours. It never bothers me lately. I didn’t stir.
I slept and felt cool tiles against my back, grinding their pattern into my shoulders. My breath being forced from my chest.
Television laughter from downstairs made the floor quiver. That day I had walked through the park. A peacock fanned its feathers and screamed at me. We had stood that way, my calmness and his screaming, neatly and forcefully choreographed by a thick mesh fence.
I slept and felt hands grip my back and hips hard enough to bruise. My foot strike out and push against the wall. I stirred.
The score caught on the edge of my sleep and unpicked it. Calmly, I stared at the screen and pressed play. I watched the film in sequence. Black and white to a blur of colours. Languid silence and movement to violence. Beginning to end and back again.
Sleep laid with me, watching, but I didn’t turn to him till dawn.
There isn’t a rush.
There never was.

Description
One hundred and twenty one days later, at around the same time of early morning, I was staring at the ceiling. An hour ago, I was in a smaller bed, less comfortable with pillows that tangle my hair. But I love it there. I need to go back.
When I got home, I slipped the disc in and let it run. Laying there I listened to the score, the menu running over and over.
I slept.
I slept and felt hot water and lips across my mouth. My fingers in his hair.
Beyond my head and through the wall, my neighbour coughed constantly. It used to keep me awake. One day last summer I sat in the garden and watched her smoke 20 cigarettes in two hours. It never bothers me lately. I didn’t stir.
I slept and felt cool tiles against my back, grinding their pattern into my shoulders. My breath being forced from my chest.
Television laughter from downstairs made the floor quiver. That day I had walked through the park. A peacock fanned its feathers and screamed at me. We had stood that way, my calmness and his screaming, neatly and forcefully choreographed by a thick mesh fence.
I slept and felt hands grip my back and hips hard enough to bruise. My foot strike out and push against the wall. I stirred.
The score caught on the edge of my sleep and unpicked it. Calmly, I stared at the screen and pressed play. I watched the film in sequence. Black and white to a blur of colours. Languid silence and movement to violence. Beginning to end and back again.
Sleep laid with me, watching, but I didn’t turn to him till dawn.
There isn’t a rush.
There never was.