A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, after a difficult conversation — for an overtired night

The story, in full

Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.

The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.

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

They will find their own way out. Almost nothing to do now.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Stay with the weight of your body. The words can start to blur now.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let them. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Difficult conversations leave a residue. This is for the residue.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.