It’s night time.
The sun has shone madly all day,
And now, in this quiet hour, every rug, chair, picture-frame
and book pulsates from the heat of the day.
The patio doors are flung open; aghast.
Phil is stretched out on the green velvet sofa.
A hint of red wine lingers on our teeth, betraying us.
‘This heat reminds me of my mother.’
I run my fingers around the edge of my wine glass. One.
Two. Three.
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