No matter how tight she pulled the curtains, first light still seeped through. Dust danced in the streams like the shapes behind her eyelids. Pink, yellow, orange.
The back ends of the fabric were pinned to the wall and still the socks curled on the rug were distinct shapes, far from the dark lumps they became in the dead of night. With a ray of light hitting it, the vase of red roses on the desk shone more than it did when the room was fully lit. A yellow reflection printed itself onto the wall behind, the water level low. She should never have lied about liking them.
Her nose wrinkled as the sight of the roses made her notice their sickly smell, one she could only escape from in sleep. Red; romance, richness, love, lust. An apology in the form of stems with petals. A beam from another gap in the fabric crept up her arm without her realising. The room wasn’t cold, and yet all the hairs stood on their ends. In the dim light, the blues were purple, the yellows brown.
She pulled herself up onto her elbows, squinting as yet another strip of light found her eyes, this one horizontal, splitting her face. Running a hand through her hair, she winced from the tenderness left by the tugs and the pulls. The more she looked, the more him there was. Shoes on the rug beside the rack, a crushed beer can next to the bin, one corner of the curtains pulled from its ring, letting still more light disturb the darkness. A metal taste filled her mouth as she sucked her lip.
Lauren Robertson 