A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for winding down

Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful. The pillow is slightly too soft, and you fold it in half, which fixes it. The bed has been turned down, and the sheets are cool on the side you have not been lying on.

The carpet is the colour of weak coffee and absorbs every sound. There is a small card on the desk with the breakfast times on it, which do not matter tonight. Your case is open on the luggage rack, half unpacked.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

The air conditioning makes a low sound that you will stop noticing within a minute. The curtains are heavy and close properly, which is rarer than it should be.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Almost nothing to do now. Leave it there.

Sleep. Let the dark be ordinary. You can stop listening properly.

Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.