A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are at home and cannot settle — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Let the quiet be boring. Let the next part go past without you.

Nothing here needs following closely. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let them.

Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

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