A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end

The story, in full

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Softer. Nothing here needs following closely.

You do not have to count them. Let them. Almost nothing to do now.

If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.