Water rises, slowly, in the
balanced dish, in the thin china flaked with corn that went unrinsed after last
night's supper, the tap squeaks. Other dishes too are stacked, the edges ripple
overflow: water pours, with intermittent squeak, stirs up the stagnant strip of
flat in the washing up bowl; tiny reflections tremble. Grey light sighs over
crumbed worktops. A towel on the floor in front of the washing machine, striped
in shadow, dotted in sand. Where are the wetsuits? Unrinsed, one suspects;
smiles, raises up the window blinds to bulked cloud; thinks of yesterday. How
warm it was: how we sat with the sun-bloom on our faces, on the way to work,
straight from Perranporth beach, in the car drinking cold coffee and how the
rain came down! The air chilled. It even had that smell, that faint spice of
autumn. At work we were pale with sea salt and dusty sand. At home, warm socks
waiting.
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