Brief, quiet.

Suddenly this edition is at the printers'. Proofreading has been done. Legals have been cleared. Deadlines have been met. Tendons untighten, stress headaches disappear, fingers itch to write and glistening wine unwinds spools of knotted neck. No deadlines for two months.

Breakfast this morning at Babka's. Celebratory blinzes, coffee. Who needs verbs? Short supply. Shoes to be ogled in Smith St stores. Hair to be cut, dresses tried on. Divest yourself of your physical person, your hair, your fingernails, paint your toenails and sit on the front porch. Eat dry biscuits and listen to the rain. Drink tea and watch SBS. Find yourself in your bedroom before midnight, lights out, only blue drops thrashing at the window. Moonlight shines through leaves. Clean sheets on a shorn neck. No alarm set.

Suddenly quiet. Days ahead stretch like rubber bands. No deadlines for two weeks, drink a cup of tea, listen to the rain, tomorrow tomorrow, tonight is quiet. Time hangs between clean sheets and soft sleep. That stretch of time is full of blue shadows. Quiet. Brief.

Flutter of lashes on skin. The room exhales.