There’s something about dusk that’s ever so soothing, a release from obligation – knowing the day cannot be done over so settle into the evening.
The light’s going heavy and down to eye level, spreading out across the rooms. You’ll take no more calls and no more guff.
Once you’re home, dinner is done, and you’ve plumbed the rusted cogs of your brain to recall axonometric projection, you’ll attend your Phalaenopsis leaves turning dark green, you’ll throw in your dirty laundry in the washer – listening to Michael Buble’s ‘save the last dance for me’. You’ll scratch the cat’s neck, stroke her head, as she purr, then come slamming in for a hip massage.
Settle down, now.
You’ll feel the low sun on the back of your neck, then turn to the window to get blinded.
Something divine is taking place in the kitchen, and you’re stupid in love.
Now the sky’s getting flashy with pinks and blue. So you stare and blink slow and forget what riled you today, because it’s the evening glad of perfect quiet entering your mind.
Only sensual, it feels near obscene.