Australian fiction, poetry, essays, book reviews
  • Time to read 1 minute

A cup of orange juice sits on the table beside me. The sun sneaks in sheets through the
shutters of my bedroom. I want to open the rest of my windows but I do not. The drink has
sat there for a while. It warms in the sun, changing from juice to honey to amber gold. My
ceiling fan spins and the papers on the floor lap against the bottom of my bed. My shirt is
loose and hangs like an empty pillow. The fan makes me cold but I do not turn it off. The sun
looks warm outside. The orange juice glistens. I wonder if I touched it would it be warm too?
I sit on my hands and watch the clock on the wall. The sun is going down and soon it will be
black. I’ve left the ceiling fan on but the light off. My hands are numbing. I should turn the
cold off. I should turn the light on. My lips are dry now. The trees outside look like
sunflowers and I wonder if they are warm too. The shadows are long in here. The clock goes
and soon the sun is gone. The orange juice sits half-empty, a lime straw resting on the rim of
the cup. The trees stand solemn in shrouded silhouettes. Closed windows mean nothing now.
However, the fan continues to spin. It’s colder now. I should have turned the light on. I
should have drunk the potion. I should have stood in the sun. It’s dark now. With numb
hands, I lie down. Perhaps tomorrow.

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