Hungry Caterpillar

The dishwasher has hummed and hummed, for the house is host to the glassy metal ceramic flotsam of the post-party, smudged and fragile in the washy sunlight, everything vaguely shocking in its wholeness. Seaside smell of empty wine bottles, glasses with a miniature tidal trail of bordeauxy sediment in the bottom as though someone had been panning with them in a river rich in tannins. I'm slightly hung over and my calves are surprised about wearing high heels last night and everything is a run-on sentence. I eat leftover cake with one hand and open dishwasher tablets with the other and worry about things which don't seem to have anything to do with one another. I find lambskin gloves in the study, disguising themselves against a cushion so well that their owner concluded last night that he must not have brought a pair. I am pleased to see them. I have found something.