By Harriet Gillian
Lucy lay on her back on the carpet in the spare room. She stared at nothing, wondering why whenever she was sad, the floor always felt amazing.
Maybe, she thought, it was like the word; ‘muggy.’ It’s ‘muggy’ because the humidity is close enough to ‘mug you.’ Right? So maybe, by lying on your back, the floor has literally ‘got your back?’
Time went slower on the floor too, that was another thing. And the perspective, Jesus. Lying next to shelves that towered above her, chair legs taller than her head. Maybe the smallness helped? Maybe all of it did. Maybe, she could tap into all the other sad people in London and run ‘sad floor sessions?’ She’d call it ‘Sob Fest,’ or ‘Sobby Sessions,’ and charge miserable people ten pounds an hour to lie on really thick, lose-your-mind-on-it shag pile carpet. She could build the tallest shelves to make everyone feel really, really small and get giant furniture in, like over-sized Borrowers-style chairs and tables.
This could be a thing.
Lucy wiped away dried remnants of the tears she’d cried ten minutes earlier and sat up. She typed into WhatsApp; ‘Do you ever lie on your carpet when you feel sad?”
Fi responded instantly. “All the fucking time, babe.”
Yes. This could totally be a thing.