The Invader

The Invader August night, air condition off no electricity, dying in my own “sweat,” a word I wasn’t going to use again. A sudden gush of hot air makes the curtain move, in a surprised way like an English castle ghost caught unaware in the armoury. The gush is full of crematorium ashes, cling to my face won’t come off; I’m tired have no strength, when I finally get to the bathroom, my face is clean, ash has gone through my skin followed the blood stream to my heart and brain. I know share my body with someone else; a soul that didn’t want to leave, but demanded more time. There have been subtle changes I have a hankering for tea, no milk and two lumps of sugar, I leave the loo lid down and keep bathroom clean. The feminine side of me keeps my coarse ego at bay; I do not sweat anymore but transpire.