Fruit Tree

The light is slowly leaking out of the room, sucked away with the sun`s retreat behind the bleary blanket of a waning winter afternoon sky.

The light left gives an autochrome-like graininess to the air in the one-room flat. Its towering ceiling is easily twice a man`s height.

Long white curtains flow softly down from three tall windows. The shades are drawn down two of them, and halfway down the middle one, where one can see, through the irregularities in the glass, the roofs and sides of other London flat buildings against the colorless clouds.

The door rests in its fluted Victorian molding at one edge of the wall opposite, and at the other is Nick`s mattress, jammed into the corner as much as possible, as far from the light as possible.

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