It starts with a flash. A photograph is taken, immortality given to an otherwise fleeting occasion. In it, the accidental coffee spills, the soft spoken advances, the chimes of utensils against plates, or the scraping of chopsticks against Chinese take out.
Time begins to hasten, minutes perspire. The chorus crescendos at a peak of simultaneous requisition, and you have found home. A minute later, what was previously the pulp of passion has filtered into half priced ‘no bits’ -no bullshit- orange juice found in the back aisle of a local Tesco.
Now it’s 12:08 or 12:19, you can’t seem to tell. The numbers keep fluctuating on the digital clock; weary whether to move forward or stand still. Pendulously trapped. How long have you been sleeping? An electric hue hangs in the air, coated with a thin sheer of red light that filters in through the outside world.
She has her back turned, but the slow rise and fall of her body makes it clear that even now, she’s still dreaming.