With one last effort, as dynamic as the last push had been, the fire flickering from the center of the candle exhausted itself. The burst of smoke illuminated and dispersed as quickly as the spark from a finger snap’s friction. However, the longer the smoke lingered, the sorry one felt for it. Despite it being an inanimate object and the gaseous hand’s twiddling fingers blending into nothing, there was a solemn performance about the smoke that tugged at eyelids. From the vague familiarity, the alcoves around those Shakespearean orbs leaked. The nerves stretching from the face, particularly the eyelids, would somehow intertwine in that bodily web to tug at those looped around the heart. The scent of burning eased the onset of tension, again the outcry from the sockets continued to well.
She sat there. Light makeup weighted her face, agenda blotted her mind. You could see it in her eyes and the shadows below them. Her bag did most of the talking, and how it fell–it was partially open–the handles, rigid, and falling lifelessly to the side. It bared its soul–here’s what inside. The arms stuck out and down to the side in similar fashion to a person, who assuredly attached to a bungee, falls off the ledge of a bridge. The negative side: how the toughest of all men and fed up with life sticks his arms out to welcome an oncoming bus. Disheveled is what the placement read, and simply so.
Jutting movements agitated the couch. She’d focus out the window, and simply stare. She’d lean back into the couch, and throw one leg upon one knee. She’d lean forward, and a hand, in a fist, would cover her mouth with the index finger grazing over the crack between chapped lips.
This was simply a break, a stop, a pause. The handles of that bag were simply displaying relief from having to sway upon the shoulder of a mover, an adventurer.
As her hands connected with her knees, a breath of air pushed across the table. It was a mental burp–relief. At that same time, the beverages ordered were promptly delivered. Without hesitation, she was out that door and scuffling down the street. The waiting, the pause, the holler of satisfaction, was simply a blink–always immediately forgotten and never reconsidered.
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald