By Anna Royle – Creative Writing Editor
I walk down the sandy sounding steps of my apartment block,
lily-rose pumps clipping against the tiles, I push the heaving front door
open, sunlight hugs my skin, Amélie hair waving gently in the breeze. I walk
to the Marche Auguste-Blanqui, picking up lemons, tomatoes, rocket, cheese,
stopping in a supermarket on the way home, one where the door jingles, the revolving fan giving me a break from the August air, choosing a bottle of red wine to pour
into a stemless glass, while I chop the fresh salad, stirring the white tagliolini,
paper anniversary crackling through my cream Bush radio, sun casting
an orange glow that seeps through the gaps of the voile curtains.
Once I’ve showered and completed my skin care routine; rose oil
and lavender moisturiser to finish, I slide under the cool covers, striped satin
nightshirt glides softy against skin, fluffy eye mask blocks out the glittering
street lamps and ear plugs to muffle the clinks of glasses and laughs
from the restaurants below. I’m left staring at the insides of my eyelids,
swirls of pinks and greens and nothingness and suddenly the left side of my bed
is noticeably cold. My mind falls into images of the future, the emptiness
of my apartment feeling outdated, knowing tomorrow will be too similar to today;
a hopeless attempt at making me feel content.
The Gown Online 