The Leftover Curry

It is a memory so real I can count the cracks in the ceiling.
I could tell you the wattage of the light bulb.
60. Screw fitting.
Smell the morning air and I can smell last night's curry.
Leftovers evolving on a plate.
A curry so advanced that it could probably order the next curry.

Memories so close I could describe them to a frame of unexposed film.
Then have them perfectly printed in vivid colour.
Glossy 5 by 8.
I can feel my bare feet on the un-vacuumed carpet.
Little bits of rice stick to my skin.
Some bills have slopped through the door.
One is stuck under the flap. It hangs limply.
The phone rings. The curry picks it up. I'm late for work.