A kitchen late at night, when you need something unremarkable — for jet lag

The story, in full

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your ankles can go loose now.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

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

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Stay. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Sleep. Let the room get slightly further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.

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