Momentary suspension

It’s a winter’s night in Melbourne, cold but not icy, just biting, inside’s heater-warm though it’s a drizzly world outside. Can’t hear the raindrops; jazz is in the air, floating through the window, slipping through the closed blinds like honey, thick and gold. Some cars pass, a couple or two people step quickly around the puddles, heels clacking down, umbrellas flicking up. Can’t see the band playing, but I can hear them, and that’s all anyone really needs. Boyfriend’s warm too, and clean-smelling from one of his hour-long showers. Kettle’s boiled, I’ve got myself my pink fuzz of a hot-water bottle in my lap, and the slight sticky sweetness of mandarins on my lips.

I type in the dark, and sneak a peek outside to this.




The melodies, rising, falling tones and semitones swimming together and apart, slide through the night and the darkness wraps with intoxicating comfort.

Rare are nights when I’m blissfully content with where I am; this is one of them.