The Bank Loan

the fucking heat doesn’t shift.

sweat pooling around my collarbones. another dream. the third one since Monday. waking up with the sheet twisted tight around the shins. I can’t remember the script of it, just a hum behind the ears when the eyes snapped open.

nothing else moving. not even the tap dripping into the basin. the stomach flat. outside, the first milk float rattles down the tarmac two hours before dawn. but not yet. nobody cares.

dead quiet.

for a second you think you’ve cleared out and slipped through the floorboards without the fuss. then the Acacia shadows move against the ceiling. shifting like oil on water. I drag a palm over my jaw. the stubble makes a dry scraping sound. when I turn my head, the neck joints click like gravel. the linen has left red ridges across my cheek.

six hours of sleep, then the calculation starts again.

the numbers. the notice on the kitchen counter. the interest ticking over while the sun is still down. a cold weight sitting on the chest. three hundred miles away from any bank manager, but one is right here in my bed.

the loan doesn’t sleep.
it sits up with me all night,
watching the ceiling.