Januariad

In the weeks before quitting his job he pictured endless, productive afternoons at the big kitchen table. The room just cold enough that small tendrils of vapour curled visibly off his tea. Chapters spread about him in ordered chaos. His laptop in the corner for reference. Woolly jumpers and woolly socks and low winter sun falling in over the tiles. The slow but steady amassing of something significant. Release.

The weekend he left was a happy one. Friday revelry and a Saturday hangover carried him through to Sunday with his family. Everything still open and everything possible. It wasn’t until early Monday morning, standing greasy and bleary at the bathroom mirror, poking the sagging, dark meat under his eyes, that the thought came clear and sharp: You have made a terrible mistake.

He pictured endless, futile afternoons at the big kitchen table. The room so cold that small tendrils of vapour curled visibly off his tea. Pages spread around him in chaos. His laptop on his knees, reflexively prodded. Woolly jumpers and woolly socks and light so grey you’d think it was dusk at noon. The slow but steady amassing of shit.

The eventual truth was something in between, of course. Nothing so dramatic in either direction. A chilly house. Hot tea. Chapters and pages and order and chaos. Too much laptop. Woolly jumpers. Sunshine and showers. The slow and erratic amassing of something. Release.