These hands. On the steering wheel. They look like mine. The shape of them. Knuckles white. A fist. Now open. Still not right. Just hands. Driving. The road is familiar. That crack in the pavement. The yellow house. I know that house. A memory, flat like a photograph. No feeling behind it. I lived here. The thought doesn’t connect.
The key. It fits. The sound of the lock turning. A correct sound. The air inside is stale. Dust and old paper. My smell? It’s just a smell. The kitchen. Cold water from the tap. Drink it from my hands. It’s just wet. No taste. There’s a face in the mirror, dark glass. His face. He watches me drink. Pale. Tired.
My chair. The springs cry out when I sit. A familiar noise. I wait. For what? For the light inside to switch on. For me to arrive in this body. The clock on the wall. Ticking. A drop of water hitting a tin plate. Over and over. The sun is gone. The room is dark now. And I just sit. A guest in my own house.
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