by Maire Fisher

He wakes up tired and sits a while on the edge of the bed, hands loose in his lap, his feet planted on the floor. These are the moments he likes, when the ground feels firm, before he has to stand. His heart moves in his chest and he feels it for it, tries to listen to it, his hand straying to the space between the buttons on his pyjamas, finding its way to puckers of warm skin. He pulls himself up, leaning on the dressing table, making sure he is steady, balanced, before he puts his first foot forward. Through the thin net of the curtains he sees the sky, brilliant and blue above the mountain. He will make his way now to the sitting room, slide open the glass door, walk out onto the veranda and from there look out to where the sea lies, beyond the glossy canopy of the Milkwood trees.


Maire Fisher lives in Cape Town, close to the sea. She's a freelance editor who wishes someone from a large publishing company was editing her novel.