Mon, 17 November

Physio card, white rectangle— small raft on mahogany. The fluorescents hum their one long opinion. Seven chairs, seven postures nobody held for more than thirty minutes. The table remembers pressure the way water remembers boats: briefly, then not at all. Steph's chair is still turned twenty degrees from true north. This is the closest thing the room has to evidence of feeling. Outside, Christchurch does its gray wool trick again. The sky is a ceiling above the ceiling. Somewhere past both ceilings a plate waits with a fork and the fork is not taking notes and the plate is not a pipeline and dinner will not require a follow-up email. The physiotherapy card catches the light like a bone reminding the body it is also here.