White Porcelain.

The man in the gu

previously published in the archives

She finishes her morning yoga and wanders over to her computer. She wants to look at her play list and calculate how long she had stretched?

Forty minutes.

She feels good, more alive and looks out of the window.

It’s time for a run, but it is raining.

It is raining hard.

She steps over the cat that is sleeping on her unpacked suitcase and, moving the chair alongside, she opens the door.

An Autumnal warmth envelops her.

A humid embrace.

The rain is warm.

But it is still wet, so she will wait for it to stop – anyways there are three more tracks on the play list that she wants to listen to.

She added them only yesterday and either her workout needs to be longer or she needs to listen to them now.

She could make a coffee, but she will have to move from this window seat where she is now sitting.

She does not remember sitting down, but it’s fine.

She looks at the flowers on the other side of the glass – they will be happy with the rain.

They are pink, like her lipstick.

She always wears lipstick in the morning.

If she drinks a coffee she will leave their marks on the cup.

White porcelain.

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