Friday

My mother and I like to dance in the kitchen late at night. We turn the big light off, turn the speakers up, and pretend like we are at a disco somewhere. I let my body take over as I swim through the air between breaths, my arms moving loud and ravenous, my head spinning around and around. I can see my reflection from the dark, sky tinted window, watching my body move like it is someone else’s as I look on from the outside, a momentary disconnection in time to the music. The wooden floor is smooth and soft under my cotton socks as we throw our shadows down inside the home I was raised in. My movements are sour and perfect, and my ribs move up and down when we laugh like we know an inside joke. I sway and I spin, I smile. Sometimes even in perfect moments, you begin to feel the cold creep in. I reach for a glass of water as I ask my mother to open a window.

Kirsty Crawford lives in Glasgow. She writes fiction and non-fiction.