The water came out of the shower head, hit my cold and miserable body, then escaped down into the pipes, letting gravity pull it through the drainage system.
I sit on the couch and yawn. My body feels like a wet sock that was left out on the concrete to dry.
Drained. Depleted. Subdued.
I can’t tell if it’s still from the jet lag or the hot pot spice last night. My body is rejecting Beijing. My body is rejecting China.
I am slowly dying. But hey, aren’t we all? And couldn’t I just laugh a few more times before it’s all through?
I am laying on my couch in sweatpants. I am drinking Ceylon tea. It’s black like the blood that comes from the deepest part of a wound.
It’s Sunday and the thought of the work week is creeping up my spine and into my brain. I wish I could stop that thought. Freeze it in the air and shoo away the dread.