solitary afternoon
Sitting drinking rooibos with lemon and honey. Sharp and slightly sweet and hot; comforting with a twist of shock when it hits my throat. The mug is hot in my hands. Sunlight bounces around the room, from corner to corner, fated like a pool ball: through the glass and the curtains, onto the wall, off the mirror. As I type, the computer fan hums its melody of overheating and cooling down. I feel present but also away; I sit, and type, and am.
