[22 October 2019]
Autumn,
And the fire has dwindled down to gently smouldering embers.
He lies back on the dark suede couch in a nest of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap, everything he owns in front of him, spilling out of boxes and forming little piles here and there across the living room.
A car drives by. Light in the window. Tyres crunching lightly on gravel in the dead of night before fading into the distance.
He sees the coffee table: chopsticks and grains of rice, a pizza box, paper plates and used napkins. Two wineglasses with half a pour for each left in the bottle of red.
The sound of the watch on the chair across the room tick tick ticks, a staccato syncopation carving space between the rhythmic breaths beside him.
He reaches out to pour a glass. He stirs behind him in his sleep. He lies back down.
Tick tick tick.
The clouds part, and, for a brief moment, the moon peers in between quiet curtains and basement windowpanes before slipping back behind the curtains and clouds, light playing briefly on wineglass and a plastic fork and the gold on his finger.
An arm reaches out and wraps around him and pulls him closer.
Eyes closed, breathing in sights and sounds and memories and new smells and familiar smells.
Tick tick tick.
ただいま。He says.
おかえり。He says.
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