Farewell Sunday

Lunch is a feast that I have not had time to build an appetite for. I chew slowly.
Then i'm tidying and stacking and folding. I load grey clothes into the washing machine, I rub jellied grease and porridge skins off the pans. Things shine amidst the mess, and I am satisfied that it all looks okay for that one guilt-free minute before I turn my back and layers of hectic dirt begins to slyly settle again..

I am free until tomorrow. I bike bike bike. I fly through concrete and scrubby patches of greenery until my legs ache and then I keep on pedaling until I forget the aching. I stop to pick up a lost pound coin. I sit by the weed-tangled lake and read the last few pages of my book, wherein the protagonist slips past her jailer (lost in gin-soaked dreams), and sets alight to the house..
An ant crawls up my arm. A dog buries it's nose in my bag of bread rolls. Then the clouds sneak in and a chill hits my skin.
I pick up my bike, we leave the park and I loop round the city to home. As I ride I watch the sky darken, red-purple flames lick about the jagged edges of buildings. Streetlamps glow orange. Headlights blind me over and over again, and like a moth I never learn..
I climb the last hill, wheel on into the house and kick off my shoes.

Inside it seems dim and stale. I search for some wine and chocolate and drop down into an enormous chair. I zone out on a forgettable film. Some man gets punched a lot and then goes and shoots people he's told to shoot.

There was something else I needed to do. Something still undone..
Where do I want to get to? Who do I want? What for?
I don't remember.
It'll come back.