INTERIORS

There is a lamp. There is a rug. There is a chair. There is a window. A door (slightly ajar). A cigarette is still burning in the ashtray on the bookcase. There is a woman in the corner. There are three men talking close. Another woman circles the room with a tray. There is a child, back to the observer. An even smaller child, a baby girl, lies on her stomach under an old wooden table. It is square. She is playing with tiny plastic ponies. There is a chime that infiltrates the thick walls of this grand room; just the right tone to slip and sinew in through the invisible cracks.

I am flanked by William’s coarse wool and Karl’s silky smooth. I know they feel my awkwardness. I was sent in to find a place for canapés. There is no place for canapé’s. I am impossibly shy. Look at her standing apart from us, such a snob.?What is that sound? My mind is wandering again. Please don’t yell at me, Mama. Cassidy’s breath smells like fish oil; William’s like a river of whiskey. The ceiling is too, too high above my pony’s heads.?I will keep us safe.

It is simple, really, we are each in a totally separate room together. Everything, every bit of dust and sunlight is different from where I am standing.?It is a riddle. We know and can never know.

Oh my, I’d better tip that ash before I burn the whole damned house down.?