She’s tired, even more than the night before. Pushing open the dilapidated door, her fatigue increases as she trudges into the dark kitchen. Coming home used to be a refuge, the divorce took that too; she hates this house; she doesn’t feel safe here. The yellow glow from the dirty bulb does little to elevate her mood, even with the light on, the room seems dark. Dropping her bags on the ground, she stares at the loose floor tile. “Fuck.” She forgot the glue. The tiles seem to be the only thing her greasy landlord cares about in this squalid place. “Don’t disturb the tiles!” he slurred at her at least four times, his sour breath fouling her air with each instruction. She’ll fix it tomorrow. Tomorrow… how endless her days felt; time once a precious commodity, every minute respected, treasured. Now she dreads each new second. Shame’s added to her list of ‘new’. Kicking off her shoes, she crawls onto the unmade mattress and falls asleep with her clothes on. In the kitchen, the tile creaks, sending a gush of dusted air towards the bedroom. 62 years later she wakes; wrinkled, stiff and sore and still so fucking tired.
—
Photo by Thomas Willmott on Unsplash
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