The lonely letterbox

The lonely letterbox, the struggling goose-pigeons and the snotty cat grumble, mewl and spit. Their purrs patter the ground. My e-mails have gone into the wastepaper basket. My friend’s voice is a little too high for my ear. I listen for her sigh. It’s not there. It’s past one in the morning, and the dervishes come on at a quarter past one. The notes from their set are loud, striking the single oof of one percussionist. The piano sounds like a starboat drifting through outer space. My mind is a corridor where I don’t know what the oncoming lights are or where they are coming from. I feel the bare, cold floor. I don’t want to take off my boots. I stand, my boots, my socks, my trousers, my T-shirt. I kick away the sock of the lace-up toe and wonder if anyone has noticed. I’m standing in a tatty study in the sunless hours of the early morning. Outside, the night is calm, the air of a traveller who has reached its destination. I turn off the piano music, and when the dervishes finish, the keyboard beeps an alert. I don’t want to see who called. I turn and walk out.