There’s nothing subtle about change.

Like an unannounced visitor it arrives on your doorstep. No time to clean the dishes that have cluttered the benchtop, no time to tame the frizz jutting out like antennas. You refuse to open the door, lock it for good measure but change helps itself in through the kitchen window. It settles in your lounge, smiles at the framed moments lining the walls, looks out of place on your favourite leather couch.

Your palms sweat, stomach churns with nerves and hunger. You force a smile like a good host when all you want to do is grab its lanky arm and throw it out. You make small talk to ease your fear.

“Would you like a drink?” you say, voice shaky.

“No thank you. You could use one.”

You find Change’s arrogance more unnerving than its stern voice.

“What do you want then?”

“There’s plenty of time to figure it out.” Change stretches its legs, knocks the ten-year-old vase off the coffee table.

You stare at the scattered glass.

“Oops,” says change, holding its hands up.

A whimpering escapes your mouth as you try to pick up the pieces while Change gets comfortable on your couch.

 

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