She wakes from dreaming abruptly, 2 barks of laughter escaping her thirsting tongue like wild birds frantically flapping their wings, daring darkness to catch them mid-flight. She rises, slowly, bones creaking, rusty box springs in her sunken skin. She stretches and peers at the clock by her bedside table. 6am. The hour of hushed sunlight peering behind folds of sky. The hour of clandestine goodbyes dressed in yesterday’s perfume. The hour of solitude. She moves slowly, almost like dreaming except through a fog. She goes about her routine. Turns on the kettle with its sharp steam. Feeds the cat with its begging meow. Runs the tap with its icy touch. All the while, she is left with the disturbing sense that she is no longer herself. She is a shadow, drifting, no branch to grasp, no raft to hang on to. The kettle whistles, alarming her out of her daydream. She pours hot water in a mug, a small splash scalding her skin momentarily. She sets the kettle down, picks up her mug, and goes back to her bedroom. She settles down in front of her dressing table, tea blowing warm steam around her. She slowly picks up her makeup brush and begins applying foundation to her face, layer after layer of liquid sweeping over her face until there is nothing left.

















