A pair of white headphones rests on dark hair. The right hand reaches past the forehead and touches the crown of the head lightly, and the sleeve of a chunky ivory knit has slid down to the elbow. Inside the glass cabinet on the left, bottles and jars stand blurred. The light of an overcast afternoon presses the right wall into gray.
While looking at the photograph, the shoulders come down about a hand's width. The jaw of the person who has given the back of her head to the sofa's backrest is slack, and the eyelids are quietly closed. Following those closed eyes, the breath on this side lengthens by a beat, and the sense of the soles touching the floor comes back late.
On days when the eyes lead all day long, the mind tends to be three or four steps ahead of the body. On days like that the ears have been on since morning, and yet there is nothing they heard.
Lowering the eyelids and counting up to five of the sounds audible right now takes less than three minutes. The first is usually a very close sound. The refrigerator humming, or a knit sleeve brushing against the arm.
As it goes from two to three the sounds move farther off, and if one's own breathing cuts in along the way, that is counted as one as well. Once the fifth sound is reached, the eyes may open.
The same five can also be counted after turning off the tap at the end of the washing up. Water goes out through the drain, and the sound of drops falling from wet dishes follows. In the meantime one only watches where the tension in the jaw lets go, or whether it does not let go at all.
The white headphones hang over the head without playing any song, and the afternoon light tilts slowly toward the glass cabinet.
