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Reasons float in the still air of the flat, settling in drifts in the corners while you try to work. Abandoning the words blurring on your screen, you crouch and sift through them with your hands. They offer the slightest resistance, like tiny feathers or scraps of tissue, but when you try and extract a single one, it dissolves between your fingertips.

Warnings bounce off the walls and the windowpanes while you take a bath, words and sounds that knock against each other, splitting and merging—never, mistake, nevertake. You massage conditioner into your hair, unable to remember if you’ve applied it once already.

Advice lies in pieces on the floor. Your best friend gave it to you when she was here the other night, but you threw it at the wall, and it shattered. Sitting wrapped in your towel on the sofa, waiting for your nails to dry, you try and fail to fit the fragments back together.

Your blue dress lies coiled on the chair. You slide it on, line your eyelids with a rich dark brown; maybe you will call around your friends, make vague plans that can be easily undone.

The mobile rings on the chest of drawers. Louder and clearer than anything you’ve heard all day. It dances its way over the surface and falls to the floor, the vibrations singing into the soles of your feet and up your body. You answer it while you pull on your black ankle boots and grab your leather jacket from the chair.

The front door lets in a draught and a slice of low sun, illuminating what looks like particles of dust, that swirl up and out into the evening as you leave.

Flash Fiction by Anthea Morrison
Picture: Tap 2 by Peter Werkman under CC BY 2.0

Published in Spring 2017

One Comment

  1. Alma Alma

    I love this Anthea! Beautifully written and I can visualise this. Keep on writing.

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