A kitchen late at night, when you have just finished work — for the hours after a late shift

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

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

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

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your ankles can go loose now.

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Let the next part go past without you. You can stop listening properly.

Slower. Let the dark be ordinary. Almost nothing to do now.

The gap right after work is the easiest one to use.

Let everything get quiet, including this.