Portrait

She had a general refusal to wear socks, and as such, shoes generally rattled about her ankles, allowing suggestions of the rainy weather to peak in. It wasn’t all bad, but as she crested the long and fatal hill, her good will and independence buckled solemnly, and she felt more snake than lady as she slid under the carpet of living, and back to her house. Things tended to dead-end there, in the north-west corner, facing the pacing donkeys and her familiar wishing well of internet escapism. What was friendliest, most rewarding, was the anonymity, the mobility, and most importantly, the infinite chance simply to be kind, and loving, to those who would not cling back, not call her a part of their life.

Walking tentatively across the freshly-mopped floor, her nose entangled in the scent of heavily humid air, freshly burned incense, and wholesome floor soap, she stretched out her mind in search of an empty water glass, picturing the satisfaction of another gulp of coolness. The future, a tangle of upset hopes, fueled blindly by the inevitable firmness of a heart’s conviction yet to find simple earthy words to express itself. Excitement, terror, and the faint taste of freedom, like the almost-savoring of sweetness upon entering a candy store. Hers was still a powdered future, a miasma upon the breeze, and she escaped often to the garden in order to chase after the aroma with her thoughts, and spread her limbs, weakened by sadness, through the clover in shade.