Sometimes Tired

The door swung open and the woman entered the house. Her shirt was back-sodden and dripping under the armpits. Dark shorts revealed muscular calves and her feet were a flash of yellow laces. Untying the knots she kicked off her trainers and walked to the living room. Collapsing onto the sofa she wiped a pillow across her brow. Slug-slime, a trail of her own sweat. Odour permeated couch and cushion. She did not care.


Red faced she rose.

Red faced she walked to the kitchen.

Taking a glass she started towards the sink, paused, remembered, smiled. Opening the fridge door she found the jug of water. Pouring she savoured the glug glug glug into the glass. Savoured the glug glug glug down her throat.

Waited again.

Poured again.

Glug glug glug.

Glug glug glug.

Deep refreshment. A coursing coolness floods the body.

She was in the bathroom now. Cold spray washed off the sweat. Fragrance clung to her hair as she worked the creamy mousse. Lathered she brought the shower head to her scalp; a slight pressure pulsed across the skull, wavelike. Vision blurred by the bubbled waterfall. Her eyes stung.

In the kitchen once more, her hair matted and slowly drying. Loose jogging bottoms and a baggy shirt kept her comfortable. She placed slabs of bread, slices of ham and a chunk of cheese on a plate before taking it through into the living room. Just before sitting down she wrinkled her nose. In the corner of the room she had a small cabinet. She rummaged for a few moments before finding the air freshener. Two sharp blasts were sufficient. Flicking the TV on, she sat down and ate her lunch.

She sat satiated. She put her plate aside. Legs stretched out and eyes closed. She thought of the promise of tomorrow. There was always an excitement. It would come with a deep limbed pain. A physical certainty. The burning proof of exertion. A future ache. The inevitable evidence. The satisfaction.


Sometimes Tired

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