1. i) like to wake up without an alarm; to let sleep sigh out of me at whatever time my body wishes to rise. it feels like a small gift to myself, like stroking down my own hair or showering.
2. you) say waking up at whatever-the-fuck o’clock is unproductive and not self-help and means i leave dishes in the sink longer than you want them to be there.
3. i) ask if you just hate that it proves i’m there—a fact.
(we) both sleep better ignoring that- though sleep is not an issue for me, you tell me. (2.2)
3.2. you) say it’s not anything to do with that; that dishes don’t have to mean everything, that everything ends eventually. that it’s not about the dishes but the fact that i can’t seem to do anything anymore. you) flip on the tap to make a point. hard.
3.3. i) intake sharply, flinching though you stay well away from me.
you) apologise, eyes turned down to scour the linen tiles. you scuff the corner rising up by the bottom of the dishwasher—another failure on my part.
i) know you want to tell me i should have left things longer—let things sit. you) don’t say anything. i) see the disdain in your flushed cheeks
i) ask what your plans for the day are. i) do not ask why i wasn’t invited, but you— interrupt anyway, to say it’s with a friend that you know i won’t like.
9. i) ask why you think you know that
9.1. you) tell me we’re just different people.
9.2. i) wonder how you could like two people so different from one another.
9.3. i) wonder when you stopped liking me, and the thought crawls like a cat up my back. i) wrap my cardigan around my shoulders.
10. you) tell me you can’t afford to put the heating on; that it’s selfish to make you feel bad for never heating cold bones. that humans are animals, and that animals adapt to their environments when they stay there long enough.
10.1. you) look at my unwashed hair and grey teeth. something in my expression causes you
to hesitate—a cold word dancing on the edge of your tongue.
the dishwasher rattles us out of silence, and you) jump back.
“fucking thing!” you) exclaim, turning to me.
11. i) remember that i never called the landlord to get it fixed. that you told me it kept you up at night, and that we don’t all feel good wasting precious days away. you) don’t tell me that you don’t recognise me, but i) see it hidden in the hood of your eyes; something tinged with indifference. it turns my tongue limp in my mouth.
you) walk out of the room and don’t look back.
i) leave the dishes in the sink and let you hate me for it.
i) smile with hollow bones as you) rise hungrily, finger spread to catch the last summer light
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