He knew about my tap. And my bed. The leaky one and the one that constantly had to be fixed. He experiences my wifi every night, and he saw my legs whilst I stretched my hips this morning. He knows what it means when the rickety of the drawer rolls, that drawer in that green wicker chest— that I am getting undressed.
He knows— that when the sound of that tap becomes louder and more consistent that the brush of my mouth is to come. And the sound of my spit. He hears the splashes of my nose blowing bubbles in my hands and infers that’s me washing my face. And my breathing muffled and pronounced by some material— he figures is me drying it.
He knows the sound of the bath here. The bath with the green and white tiles. He knows because last night I accidentally kicked it. How could that even happen he asked. Because I’m positioning my leg on its side. To rub my oil on my body.
I tried to make that sound extra loud.
I switched off the light for another night. The light to the bathroom. I moved over to my bed and swept my hands over the sheets (to fix it). My whole followed. I tucked myself under the covers
and put his voice on my chest.
Thinking, reassuring, as usual, that it won’t be long until he hears the sound that’s underneath.
He knew about my tap. And my bed. The leaky one and the one that constantly had to be fixed. He experiences my wifi every night, and he saw my legs whilst I stretched my hips this morning. He knows what it means when the rickety of the drawer rolls, that drawer in that green wicker chest— that I am getting undressed.
He knows— that when the sound of that tap becomes louder and more consistent that the brush of my mouth is to come. And the sound of my spit. He hears the splashes of my nose blowing bubbles in my hands and infers that’s me washing my face. And my breathing muffled and pronounced by some material— he figures is me drying it.
He knows the sound of the bath here. The bath with the green and white tiles. He knows because last night I accidentally kicked it. How could that even happen he asked. Because I’m positioning my leg on its side. To rub my oil on my body.
I tried to make that sound extra loud.
I switched off the light for another night. The light to the bathroom. I moved over to my bed and swept my hands over the sheets (to fix it). My whole followed. I tucked myself under the covers
and put his voice on my chest.
Thinking, reassuring, as usual, that it won’t be long until he hears the sound that’s underneath.
E.G.:
Flora Tennant
Substack - Instagram - Vimeo
Nanna didn't seem to mind that I had smushed the cake whilst running for the train. It must've been the heart shpaed glasses I had bout each of us to wear.
Jack learned that the pipes had to be cleaned of spit
Moved to the Hampton Inn and Suites.
Movie night at our flat in the Carribean.
Maybe I will just be tired by the time I die.
From 36 to 43 is 7 whole years. But from the outside, they may as well be the same, 36 and 43.
In only 12 years, I’ll be 40.
From 28 to 40. 12 years ago I was 16— I could literally be 23 right now, where 16 isn't far off.
But actually, 16 is 7 whole years ago from 23.
In only 7 years I’ll be 35. Which is very different from 28.
Hopefully by the time it’s time to die, one whole year really will be one whole year which, actually, I won’t want anymore.
He knew about my tap. And my bed. The leaky one and the one that constantly had to be fixed. He experiences my wifi every night and he saw my legs whilst I stretched my hips this morning. He knows what it means when the rickety of the drawer rolls, that drawer in that green wicker chest— that I am getting undressed.
He knows— that when the sound of that tap becomes louder and more consistent that the brush of my mouth is to come. And the sound of my spit. He hears the splashes of my nose blowing bubbles in my hands and infers that’s me washing my face. And my breathing muffled and pronounced by some material— he figures is me drying it.
He knows the sound of the bath here. The bath with the green and white tiles. He knows because last night I accidentally kicked it. How could that even happen he asked. Because I’m positioning my leg on its side, to rub my oil on my body. I tried to make that sound extra loud.
I switched off the light for another night. The light to the bathroom. I moved over to my bed and swept my hands over the sheets (to fix it). My whole followed. I tucked myself under the covers
and put his voice on my chest.
Thinking, reassuring, as usual, that it won’t be long until he hears the sound that’s underneath.
It would be a placebo if you didn't have to say decaf.
But I wouldn't hold up the sky for him because I wouldn't believe that he needed it held up.
