“You look pretty! Did you do your hair?” he murmurs from behind the safety of the card.
She tries to look around the card, peering and peeking her face towards the edge of the micro-universe of her, him, his fingers and a folded piece of thin cardboard.
He follows her gaze, hiding everything as he moves the card to avoid her casual glances at the Outside.
Long, strong, square fingers calculating, qualifying; suddenly her self, bare teenage shoulders, blind eyes, bodice of white and lavender, tight surrealist buns, white dadaist legs and all, is maneuvered into the chair in which she now sits.
A large and comfy chair. No particular color.
She looks down.
The table is in a Mission style, as in wood, short, simple and thick.
The dinner, though.
That is minimalist.
A bowl. A spoon. Both set demurely on a place setting.
The bowl is filled with…
Her lavender eyes widen.
There is a soaked and purple bowtie in the soup.
A lone white noodle, long and nudged by a shallow broth, its liquid softly lapping.
A smudge of flour dents the concretion of the bowl, a little to the left, up, near the ranging circular edge.
Narrow gold lines trumpet around the bowl’s top in little races.
The bowtie, however…
She picks up her spoon.
The spoon is thick in her fingers, smooth and stained… the grains of dark bubinga.
Abrupt, a memory squirts through her, like the piss of a tense lemon.
She laughs. But then she recalls it.
Her naked ten years, shuffling into the garden. Ten year old bottoms of toes, touching grass and leaves and the soft meditation of moss underfoot. Ten year old eyes, glaring and staring, sharp with ribbons of red from too much looking at everything.