Afternoon light through the window like a bad decision

It’s 5:17 and the sun’s hitting the edge of my sketchpad just right—golden, but not warm. I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes, thinking about how the surgeon wanted more red in the vascular diagram. I said ‘more’ is subjective, but they meant ‘more blood.’ I don’t know why that stuck with me. Maybe because I’m still in my old slippers, one of which has a hole near the heel. The kind that makes you feel like you’re half-dressed even when you’re not.