I closed my book and jumped off the bed when the fireworks went off. I pushed the window open into yesterday's sky. Black space airbrushed with marmalade bands. The houses begin to stare at me. One morning you were on your chest and your chin on your hands and your eyes marveled about and your thoughts looked through this window.
The cold English air hit me. The story of my window.
It is a window of a door of a window. A slap of glass just above the floor. An effortless suicide, a cigarette break, a conversation with a lover. The window that one morning you were on your chest and your chin on-
A boy in the second house before me shut off the light in his room. He has no curtains. Probably off to catch the crackers with his friends. I don't know. Another house has a double bed with photographs hanging above it. The bedsheets is red.
I sealed the clasps tight and reached for the phone. My father answered. He made my call sound like the strangest thing. My mother behaved like all the good mothers of the world. They both asked me if I was okay.
I breathed heavily under the weight of the duvet. It was easier to swallow whatever I had to swallow when I was lying down. I fumbled an I am okay. Of course I am okay. I have to be okay.
Then we all hung up and I did what I always do each night before going to sleep.
