She wakes before the alarm.
The room is half dark,
half grey.
The curtains breathe slightly.
She lies still
until the clock clicks.
She turns the alarm off
before it sounds.
She rises without sound.
The bedsheet folds.
The pillow is turned.
The dent disappears.
She shakes the blanket once,
then once again,
then smooths the edge.
The window opens,
a square of cold air.
She counts to five.
She closes it.
The tap runs.
It runs longer than it needs to.
The cup fills.
She drinks half.
She rinses the cup.
She places it upside down on the rack.
Condensation beads,
then stops.
Her sleeve touches the sink.
She dries the spot.
She dries it again.
The towel hangs straight.
It must always hang straight.
She smooths the edge.
It is not enough,
so she smooths it again.
A thread lifts,
a small, tired curl.
She presses it back.
The towel waits.
The chair waits.
The table waits.
She sits.
She does not eat.
She looks at the wall
where the wallpaper curls slightly.
She presses it flat.
It curls again.
She presses longer this time,
the heel of her hand,
the slow insistence of touch.
The clock continues.
It always does.
The floor creaks once.
The sound lingers
as though it has meaning.
She listens to the silence after,
the way it settles,
the way it forgets.
She stands.
She sweeps the kitchen.
There is nothing to sweep.
Still, she sweeps.
The broom moves,
back and forth,
back and forth,
until the light shifts
on the tiles.
She follows the light
with the broom.
She stops when it moves out of reach.
She boils water.
She waits for the water.
She watches the pot.
It trembles.
Steam gathers at the edges
like breath on a mirror.
She wipes the lid,
though it is still on the pot.
Her hands know the motion.
Her hands continue without her.
She stirs.
She does not taste.
The smell fills the air,
stale and warm.
She opens a window.
Then closes it.
The air is wrong both ways.
She tells herself
it will be right later.
Later does not come.
A plate rests by the sink.
It has rested there since morning.
She moves it slightly,
then back again.
The plate makes a dull sound.
She waits for the sound to fade.
When it does,
she moves the plate again,
but softer.
The mail arrives.
A small sound,
paper and wood.
She does not look.
She does not open the door.
The letter lies still.
It lies the way things do
when they are waiting.
She tells herself
it is only a bill.
She tells herself
it is nothing at all.
The hallway light
is dimmer now,
though it is the same bulb.
She reaches up to test it,
twists it a fraction,
twists it back.
Her fingers smell of dust.
She rubs them clean
on the side seam of her skirt.
She writes a list.
Milk.
Bread.
Potatoes.
Soap.
She adds sugar.
She crosses out sugar.
She rewrites sugar lower down.
She folds the paper,
folds it again,
flicks the corner into a point.
She puts it in her pocket.
She takes it out,
checks the words,
puts it back.
She leaves the flat.
The door closes softly.
She checks the handle once,
then once again,
then a third time
for the sake of quiet.
The key turns.
The key returns to its hook.
No, not yet.
She pockets it,
walks three steps,
returns,
hangs the key on its hook.
The hook clicks.
She stands and listens
to the click she has completed.
The stairwell smells
of cold and old paint.
Her shoes make a polite sound,
one step, then another,
the measured descent of morning.
On the second landing
a crack runs through the plaster.
She touches it,
an old habit,
as if to count the length.
It feels the same.
It always feels the same.
Outside, the sky is not yet blue.
It is the colour of dishes.
Her breath is visible;
she does not look at it.
She walks the same route,
past the shuttered shop,
past the bus stop with the torn map,
past the window with the dying plant.
She notices the soil is dry
and keeps walking.
At the bakery
she waits her turn.
She looks at the tray of rolls,
all similar,
all acceptable.
When asked,
she nods once.
She pays with exact change.
A coin sticks to her palm.
She peels it off
like a leaf.
It leaves a faint circle
she cannot wash away.
On the way back
she counts her steps
between corners.
She forgets the number halfway
and begins again.
The world seems to agree
with the smallness of counting.
It lets her.
She lets it.
At home,
she places the bread on the counter.
She notices the bread knife
is one inch to the left
of where it should be.
She corrects it.
Her breath comes shallow,
then steadies.
She wipes the counter
in slow ovals.
She thinks of nothing
with care.
The radio clicks on.
A voice without a face
lists the time,
the weather,
the traffic on a road
she has never taken.
A song arrives
and leaves unchanged.
She turns the volume down
until the voice becomes
a presence only.
She peels potatoes.
She peels them slowly,
carefully.
The skin curls,
a single strip,
long and unbroken.
She places each piece in water.
She stirs the bowl with her hand.
The water clouds.
Her knuckle bumps the rim.
She does not flinch,
but later she rubs the spot
as if polishing a small coin
hidden in the bone.
The knife rests on the counter.
It catches the light.
She looks away.
She looks again.
The blade is clean.
She sets it parallel to the board.
She adjusts it by a breath.
She opens the cupboard.
She counts the jars.
She knows the number already.
She counts again.
There is one label peeling.
She presses it flat,
the same slow pressure as the wallpaper,
the same breath held the same way.
She eats at the counter.
A small portion.
A half cup.
She eats standing,
as if she might leave at any moment.
She does not leave.
She washes the spoon.
She dries the spoon.
She places it back,
bowl to the rear,
handle pointing right.
She checks the drawer
once more.
She closes it gently,
as if the drawer were asleep.
The afternoon is quiet.
She dusts the mantel.
There are marks where things used to be.
She does not look at them for long.
She dusts the top of the door,
the top of the clock,
the book spines
one after another.
Her hands move slowly,
the way hands move
when they are keeping time.
She sits in the chair
by the window.
She does not look out
for long.
A bus passes.
A child laughs.
A man coughs.
Three voices cross and fade.
She follows none of them.
She looks at the seam in her skirt.
It has been mended carefully.
She smooths it once,
then once again.
On the table,
the letter lies unopened.
She moves it to the left.
She moves it back to centre.
She places a coaster on top,
as if it needed keeping down.
She tells herself
she will open it after tea.
After tea is a wide place.
She does not reach it.
She makes tea.
The kettle hisses.
She turns the handle
before it screams.
The cup is filled,
placed just so.
She does not sweeten it.
She does not drink it hot.
She waits until the steam is gone.
She sips what remains.
She tells herself
it is enough.
A neighbour’s radio
floats through the wall.
A game show laugh,
a clatter,
a shout of joy
that arrives without face.
She turns her own radio up
by one small notch,
then down again.
She prefers the room
as it was.
She checks the clock.
The hands agree.
They point to a familiar hour.
She stands,
as she always stands
when the hands are like this.
She sets the table.
Two plates.
Two glasses.
Two knives.
Two forks.
Everything in pairs.
Everything correct.
She places the salt
and then the pepper
and then the salt again,
as if the order
were a language.
She waits for the sound.
The key in the door.
The step in the hall.
The quiet that follows.
She adjusts the napkin.
She straightens the glass.
The air changes.
It always does.
Something unseen fills the space,
moves through it slowly.
She stands still.
She listens.
Dinner is served.
The plates clink.
The cutlery scratches.
The words are few,
soft,
flat,
as if worn smooth by years of use.
She answers when required.
She nods when not.
Her hands place,
remove,
replace,
in the correct order.
A drop of sauce
falls on the tablecloth.
She reaches quickly,
then stops,
then continues more slowly,
as if the stain were delicate.
A fork scrapes the plate.
The sound cuts through her chest.
She smiles without thinking.
Her throat feels tight.
She takes his plate
before he asks.
He does not thank her.
He does not need to.
After,
she clears the table.
The water runs again.
It runs longer than it should.
The soap foams and thins.
Her hands are red.
She dries the plates.
She dries her hands.
She dries them again.
She checks the knife
for water marks.
There are none.
She checks again.
Behind her,
a floorboard moves.
She does not turn.
The chair is pushed in.
The light is turned off.
The hallway hums with nothing.
She hesitates by the door
to the small room.
She touches the frame,
once,
twice.
She keeps walking.
In the bathroom
she wipes the mirror.
Her face appears briefly,
then blurs.
She does not wait for it to clear.
She folds the towel along its crease.
She aligns the edges.
She aligns them again.
She rolls her sleeve down
over the yellow place
that is almost gone now,
that was nearly nothing to begin with.
She tells herself
it is the lighting.
She tells herself
it is fine.
She checks the lock on the window.
She checks the lock on the door.
She stands in the quiet
between the two.
The flat is a held breath.
She holds it too,
gently,
until the soft ache comes.
She goes to bed.
She folds her nightdress.
She smooths the sheet.
She lies down.
She does not move.
The clock continues.
The room breathes.
She counts backward
from a number
she does not say aloud.
Her throat tightens
then loosens.
She sleeps in pieces,
as if rest came pre cut.
Morning will come.
It always does.
And she will rise
before the alarm,
to fill the cup,
to fold the towel,
to sweep the floor
that is already clean.
But sometimes,
when she wakes,
the air feels heavier.
Sometimes,
the clock sounds closer.
Sometimes,
the quiet before the key
is longer than it should be.
Sometimes she wonders
what would happen
if she did not press the towel flat,
if she left the chair out of line,
if she let the kettle scream.
She does not.
She never does.
She lifts her hands,
they shake once,
and then remember
what they are for.
The days continue,
the same and not the same.
He moves in the next room.
The floor creaks.
Her shoulders tense.
She tells herself
the sound is nothing.
She tells herself
it is late.
She tells herself
it is fine.
She keeps the lights low.
She keeps her voice low.
She keeps everything still.
And when he calls,
she comes.
When he breathes too close,
she stands smaller.
When he leaves,
she listens to the space
he leaves behind,
and breathes again,
slowly,
quietly,
so as not to wake the walls.
Each morning
she will rise
before the alarm.
She will place the cup
in its place.
She will press the paper curl
against the wall.
She will carry the list
folded once,
then once again,
in the pocket
where her knuckles know it.
She will breathe evenly.
She will keep the room even.
She will keep the day even.
And beneath the evenness,
a soft pulse,
not loud,
not large,
only steady,
only hers,
only there.