A leather-bound book whose black hand-written entries make me cry, holding it in my hand, eyes filling with tears, I close it and put it down on the coffee table; fold and curl up on the cold leather sofa, feet bare and cool from the hard wooden floor. The coffee table glass and wood, strewn with books, glasses, a stray remote control.
The air feels high up as the room extends, high ceilings up towards the skylight, but it is night. The flat is looking bare, the floor exposed in unusual places usually covered, bags and boxes dotted around half-full.
The light has been left on in the kitchen and spills out onto the dining table, wood with matching wonky chairs, metal frames, cool feet beneath; slippers always kicked off half-way through dinner and left there, forgotten, until I come home from work the next day and lean awkwardly to catch them up with my feet and put them back on; only to kick them off again half-way through dinner; dinner here, at this table, under this skylight at night.
Image: Anne Harild