The Fly

​She looked ahead through stiff lids. Outside, the wind raged hysterically, shaking the window panes, pummeling the wooden door, wrenching limbs off trees. It was a spiteful relentless wind. It rattled the house and her head.
 
Her surroundings offered contrast to the madness outside: a modest but comfortable room. A large dark mahogany chest of drawers stood stoutly along one wall. A slender full length mirror on spindly limbs seemed more shy in the corner; although it was implausibly adorned with a faded pink feather boa.
 
The windows, which continued to chatter and groan, looked toward a small lake. Usually an idyllic mirror-flat focal point, it was currently whipped into a frothy fury, and the robin’s egg blue row-boat that usually perched comfortably on the small pebble beach had been flung like a discarded sandwich wrapper halfway up the soggy lawn.
 
Between the windows squatted an old-fashioned white dressing table with patina-ed drawer handles and curlicued corners. Its surface was covered with a large swath of faded and slightly stained lace. Placed meticulously and lovingly were a silver-backed brush and an ivory-toothed comb. Between these two flagships of a genteeler time lurked several incongruous orange pill bottles, their white tops slightly askew. One bottle, the smallest, lay forlornly on its side, a rivulet of tiny yellow pills spilling from the dresser to the floor.
 
Set amidst all these various items was a staunch and solid four-poster bed. The posts themselves were sleek, and smooth, and tactile. The bed was covered with a blue crocheted blanket atop a kaleidoscopic quilt. The quilt and blanket, usually so neatly and carefully laid, one upon the other, were now in a state of disarray commensurate with the chaos unfolding outside the window. And at the eye of this internal storm lay the woman.
 
A fugitive fly, having survived the squall, sought sustenance. Disappointed by her desiccated corneas and leathery lids, it flew off in search of life within the house.
 
 
31 Oct 2017