On good mornings there’s a bright, golden-yellow glow coming from my bathroom, seeping through the many cracks around the ill-fitting door.
It’s like the glow from the briefcase in Pulp Fiction, like the glow from the chicken wings in Atlanta, like the glow from the buttercup held under your chin that indicates you definitely, unequivocally, like butter.
And every time I think I’ve left the bathroom light on. But every time it’s actually the sun.
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A version of this post was sent by email on the 19th August 2017 as part of Internet Care Package.
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Keziah Warner 