The mugs clink together onto the tray. The tea towel frayed blue, thin with washing. A dozen pairs of identical white socks hang on the clothes horse, drying in front of the radiator. She is stunned briefly, that all of this casual domesticity belongs to her. Wrapped in a thick dressing gown, hair damp, she hugs herself. She is woven through and through, her cups have left these stains, these tangled wires are the ghosts of gadgets she has owned and lost. The dust on the TV is hers, made of her skin, her hair. She has watered this cactus, and it holds a mute green memory of years. The toothpaste smear in the bathroom sink, the scratchy rust taking hold of her baking tin. She is written into this house, not in stone, but in a thousand tiny traceries.

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