Sunday Morning

The morning light is bright and sparkling, reflecting off the stainless steel sink in the cottage kitchen. When I look away, there are green leaves at every window, set in the wood-panelled walls. Batik cloth in rusty brown hangs in curtains around the cupboards under the sink.

My feet are cold. The fire died sometime in the night. I love falling asleep in the glow of the open fire by my bed. It’s been hot, I’m not sure if I bought any socks. I shiver all over when I think how cold my feet are.

I’m rolling a j.

Is it past midday? In fact, it is 10.25, I see when I look.

Guests voices get louder as they approach, walking around the lake, no doubt. Then they fade away again.

The tin roof crackles in the morning sun.

No cigarettes, I think, as I light the j. Yes, I’ve quit cigarettes.

Guest’s voices babble incoherently out of ear shot, sounding like excited kids playing by the lake. Or, were they amused at my views on smoking?

Birds cheap.

The smoke from the j hangs in the shafts of light cutting in through the window in the roof, like ethereal fairies come inside to dance.

I want flowers of red or green and maybe something white-kissed and pale.

My feet burn on the cold, stone floor.

I find some socks. I hold them up to take a look. Blue explorers with a green robe? I hear it is going to be all the rage this season – green is the new black.

I walk through the shafts of light, as I head back to the kitchen, they flash on and then off. I feel like someone out of Star Trek.

Tom just sms’d to say he’d feed the cat, if he went passed my place. Shit, I think. I’d forgotten about Missy in my escape to the country. In my oasis in the wood, I figured she wouldn’t die for one night and I stopped caring.

There is a stone fireplace. A red Persian rug on the floor. Tall eucalypts through the glass.

I’m smoking too much. I’m beginning not to feel, or at least, not know how I feel. Here I am sitting in one of the most picturesque settings in the world and I feel numb. Nicely so, but numb none the less.

Swish, swish goes my head, as I move. I’ve got to stop. I’ve got to feel. It is simply much nicer... I’m sure.