Lila stood at the window as what passed for daybreak began to light her room. Her bed was unmade and would stay unmade until she returned to it. A twitch of the coverlet and a brief smoothing of the sheets was all she would do to make it ready for sleep. The bed bore the indentation of her body. No longer did she turn the mattress, as her mother had taught her. Sheets were washed irregularly. The mould of her form and the residue of her own body odour were comforting when she retired each night. She slept alone. Lila’s husband had left many months before, seeking work up at the Confluence. He had heard that labouring was well paid there and living was cheap, that the air was more consistently purified, that grass grew…
“Wind Fall,” by Ian Carass
