Morning at the Bottom

In the morning, I poured water into a glass.

I drank about half of it and left the rest at the edge of the desk.

I meant to finish it before leaving, but while I looked for socks and checked the weather, it stayed there.

At the door, I thought once about going back.

It did not seem worth going back for.

During the day, I drank water several times.

A bottle from the station platform.

A glass of water at a table.

Water in a paper cup.

Each time, I was no longer thirsty, but I did not remember the glass from the morning.

In the evening, when I returned to the room, the glass was still on the desk.

One sip of water remained at the bottom.

Outside the window, it was already getting dark.

Even so, only the bottom of the glass seemed to remain in the morning room.

I picked it up to pour it away and carried it to the sink.

When I tilted it a little, the water did not move at once. It slowly followed the curve at the bottom.

Seeing that, I felt it might be all right to drink it.

I put the glass to my mouth.

It was not cold.

It was not quite warm either.

It had almost no taste.

But in my mouth, a little of the room’s brightness from before I left remained.

When I finished the sip, the glass suddenly felt light.

I set it in the sink.

In the empty bottom, the darkness of the window was reflected in a circle.