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.
Writer-Director
A full service production company. Providing film/video products from conception through to delivery. Writing + Directing by founder Flora Tennant (as per this website) and Cinematography by Xenia Patricia (www.xeniapatricia.com). We work with some of the most talented, reliable, and authentic professionals in the industry both on the creative side and below the line. Services include:
- Scriptwriting
- Pre production: logistics, planning and proposals
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including decks and reviews (project dependent)
- Production and full project management
- Post production and delivery including:
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picture editing
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post sound design and mix
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colour grading