A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you only have a few minutes — for waking too early

The story, in full

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.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

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.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let the mattress take all of it.

There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Sleep. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

Just the weight. Let the quiet be boring. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Nothing here needs following closely. Let it all get further away. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

A few minutes is the whole requirement.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

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