the sunday newspaper is a soft, fibrous grey and my bowl is white, rimmed with pale blue. i pour the soya milk first to see the contrast in whites. the liquid glides first as foam, freshly shaken, a sea of bubbled cream. it smells undersweet and silky. the walls are unwashed. i gaze. i imagine my life as the wife of a wealthy man. i would wear beautiful loungewear in the palest morning colours, feel like a skinny moth of a woman with powder on her shoulderblades. i would drink white tea i bought in the springtime from a chinese market where i befriended women with rough hands. the day would be meant for writing letters on thin paper and watching czech films. i would shop at upscale fabric stores and learn to sew my own clothes on a seashell-coloured vintage sewing machine.