A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been meaning to start — for a night when you do not want to think

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. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let your hands be completely still. Let the mattress take all of it.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your chest can be still now.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

You do not have to count them. They will find their own way out.

Leave it there. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

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

You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.

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

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.