she sits still, watching the clock and singing along with stevie nicks. 9:09. this is one of her favorite songs, fuck anyone who says it’s too popular to be poignant. she props her head up with a pillow, checks the clock. 9:11.

tenth avenue is noisy and chaotic. the neighbors across the way have finally moved all their things in. she can see their feet in the six inches between the blinds and the floor: they pace back and forth, go up and down, come together and move apart. they are pulling it together, placing their possessions delicately into their desired spots. one pair of feet goes up on tip toes for a kiss. 9:14.

the song skips. she hits next impatiently, frustrated with technology as a whole. mercury is in retrograde and nothing is working properly. except for her insides. for once. 9:22.

the shuffle gods are in a mood tonight, perhaps agitated like the rest of us are by mercury’s disrupted orbit. 9:27: an indie band from minneapolis that makes her feel warm and sleepy and inspired. maybe it’s the wine.

spill. 9:43.

she gets distracted on her way to the kitchen in search of a dishrag and ends up snooping through the new groceries in the fridge. the wine on her sheets spreads determinedly, taking over the fibers and soaking through the layers, bleeding all the way down to the mattress. 

at 10:14 she rediscovers the mishap, runs her fingers over the wetness of the spot, consciously decides to let it be.