It’s raining inside. The date is the eighth of January 2016. Summer. I’m standing at the kitchen bench, and the front door is open in a futile attempt by my flatmate to dissipate the humidity. He’s sitting at the table, at his laptop, his back to the door, telling me an anecdote about Hunter S. Thompson (one day I’ll get around to reading his work). It’s about midday and I’m dressed but my hair is uncombed; parts sticks up around my head in awkward curls, other parts form odd flattened patches. Dazed. Disembodied. I’m recovering from strep throat; in fact my entire experience of 2016 is of being sick. I’ve missed my sister’s birthday. I watch in the grey light as raindrops plop into the puddle growing by the front door; it is the brightest spot in the room. I drink my tea and think about this as a scene from a book. It would make a great opening line: It’s raining inside.


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