Early Night Coming

Even with the television and washing machine going, there is a Sunday silence to the flat. I imagine this is due to the cold - an air-crippling, sharp and brittle pleasure - that has pushed itself into all the nooks and crannies of these gloomy afternoon rooms. I look out through the window, and you can almost see the cold, like watching something that isn't there. The sky is dizzying and grey-white, an ocean void, and across the roofs and gardens a single trees, fading-light leaves all feverish and disordered. the leave look wet, like rain on skin.
Sound of footsteps from next door, the sound of something - a cup perhaps - being put down on a table. The washing machine starts to finish its cycle, begins again. High pitched wheeze. Nothing else, just the demands of the quiet that the new cold has bought.
Even my typing sounds too loud here.
I might go outside, see what I can find in the light teh day after British summer time has ended.
Bring on the early nights.