The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, after a difficult conversation — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The radiator clicks once as it cools down. Everyone went to bed an hour ago, and the house has stopped making the sounds it makes during the day. The floorboards have stopped creaking because nobody is walking on them.

The curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin line of streetlight along the wall. Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. Everything in the room is exactly where it was left.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

The fridge hums on and off in the kitchen, and that is the loudest thing in the building. The clock in the hallway ticks slightly behind the one in the kitchen.

Let your hands be completely still. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

The lamp beside you is the only light left on in the whole house. There is nothing left on the list for today.

Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Stay with the weight of your body.

The words can start to blur now. Slower now. Let your breathing do the rest.

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

No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, home.