If she can just persuade
her feet to slip off the edge ‘accidentally’ rather than kicking
away—pushing aside, screwing balance—causing friction and ultimately, a
boost to non-friction, then this feeble attempt on a farce will count as
a glaring success. If I ever, she thinks, but this is precisely why she’s only wearing socks on top of a newly-varnished wooden chair.
She wants to keep things stupid as one would have expected of her.
She was going to have coffee. Stoves are famous for heating things, more particularly water about to reach boiling point in three minutes. Indeed she might have decided to abandon her almost intimate contact with caffeine but the stove she left on, enough for the kettle to be mad about. If there is one other thing stoves are good at, it is their tendency to make angry kettles sing.
Unlike the familiar kitchen, the rarely-used dining room is dimly-lit. She purposely left the door a quarter-of-a-quarter open not only so a hint of bleak light can seep through from the hall to the living room where everyone else is not, but because she also finds the idea of people having to break down doors when they have no access detestable; in the end exerting effort will be proven worthless, if the ‘theatrics’ on the other side is the recompense for trying.
Contortions of the face are far more poetic than those of the body’s, and even so the combination of the two can be overwhelming to the naked eye.
A soft breeze visits and a piece of paper flies off from the table not far from where she’s at. Nothing is written on it but she longs to catch it before it lands and forcibly take it away from the invisible forces that hold, similar to how she tried to tear herself away from the chair a million times before conceding to the foremost emotion that brought her to the dismal dining room. Then she thinks that maybe she should have really written something first; maybe... but she has learned to fear the pen, and two letters more in addition to the word itself.
One minute. The kettle will signal the start of the crescendo and soon heavy footsteps will follow from the bedroom upstairs, quite begrudgingly in this dead of night. She hopes it will be over quickly and painlessly as two feet slide and four other give way—if they ever, and the rope shall handle the rest.
She wants to keep things stupid as one would have expected of her.
She was going to have coffee. Stoves are famous for heating things, more particularly water about to reach boiling point in three minutes. Indeed she might have decided to abandon her almost intimate contact with caffeine but the stove she left on, enough for the kettle to be mad about. If there is one other thing stoves are good at, it is their tendency to make angry kettles sing.
Unlike the familiar kitchen, the rarely-used dining room is dimly-lit. She purposely left the door a quarter-of-a-quarter open not only so a hint of bleak light can seep through from the hall to the living room where everyone else is not, but because she also finds the idea of people having to break down doors when they have no access detestable; in the end exerting effort will be proven worthless, if the ‘theatrics’ on the other side is the recompense for trying.
Contortions of the face are far more poetic than those of the body’s, and even so the combination of the two can be overwhelming to the naked eye.
A soft breeze visits and a piece of paper flies off from the table not far from where she’s at. Nothing is written on it but she longs to catch it before it lands and forcibly take it away from the invisible forces that hold, similar to how she tried to tear herself away from the chair a million times before conceding to the foremost emotion that brought her to the dismal dining room. Then she thinks that maybe she should have really written something first; maybe... but she has learned to fear the pen, and two letters more in addition to the word itself.
One minute. The kettle will signal the start of the crescendo and soon heavy footsteps will follow from the bedroom upstairs, quite begrudgingly in this dead of night. She hopes it will be over quickly and painlessly as two feet slide and four other give way—if they ever, and the rope shall handle the rest.
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