Cerulean blue walls and white trim. Gold frames and mirrors on the wall. A tabby on the sofa (should have adopted a white cat whose hairs match the furniture better). In the mirror a reflection of a woman with dark hair, holding a knife, and slicing a piece of chocolate cake for the plate. Black coffee in a demitase cup with gold edge. Vase of orange tulips on the table is moved aside so view is not obscured. In one hand a rosary, looping below fingers, and CNN is on. Laughter over Hubert Hornblower-Humphrey.
(I feel very uninspired to write. I tried closing my eyes to get a picture and that's what I got, but I can't even write about it. Will try again...)
Wind from the left, blowing across the deck, and the bottom might give out on the theater box. Audience of birds on the clothing line, jostling for position, trees below. Red books, leather bound, lining the bookcase indoors, glowing through the glass doors onto the railing.
Pillows on the floor. White pillows, and the bed is empty. Sheer white curtains blowing into the room as the glass doors open. Dusting the chandelier above the bed, I walked to the dresser. Picked up the heart-shaped music box and listened to it play, remembering one morning in August long ago, when I danced with her in the livingroom.
(hmm. NO good. Giving up on the fiction this morning. I feel like I'm laying out a stage rather than writing and I'm barely doing that. Imagination is dead so I may as well recount the truth of the past. Back to the true story stuff)
Yellow canary.
Last image coming to mind is a yellow canary and a rake in the garden.
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