Wilted

Sunrise was at 7:38. It was the edge of winter, early December and frost was biting bitterly at my windows, trying to get in and take my little rain forest into a much colder climate. I’d brought the plants in from my little balcony a week ago, before the temperatures dipped into the negatives.

My bed was small, creaky and way too comfortable but I reached over and grabbed my glasses off my bedside table and stretched myself awake. I tucked my feet into the slippers at the edge of my bed and slugged myself over to my kitchenette.

I cooked an omelette, flavoured heavily with pepper, and sat and ate it cross legged on my arm chair. The sun rose over the surrounding buildings, shooting out rays of gold and purple that washed my skin and made me glow. I wish the feelings of warmth and beauty would last all day.

But it was Saturday, and I had jobs to do.

I washed my dishes, donned a shirt, dungarees, and a jumper. Pushed my unruly curls into a woollen hat then grabbed my coat and keys, and left my little apartment.

It was dreadfully cold, more than I had expected and I still shivered through all my layers. I stopped at the market, bought my usual weekly shop, then took the route which avoided the plants as I had enough in my room already, then realised you can never have enough plants and went back to buy a sad little spider plant which needed all the love I could give it.

It was ten am when I returned to my room, bags clutched to my chest to stop the cold breaking through. I emptied the bags, nestled my new plant on a bookshelf and watered it heartily.

Ten in the morning and already my jobs were done.
With a sigh, I slipped off my clothes and climbed back into bed.