Strange, the silence that grows in a room when the door is pulled to and the present company is no more. Their footsteps drift away with their mumbling words towards the stairs and I am alone again.
The dark oak of the great table breathes its beeswax scent in the morning sun and seagulls cry beyond the glass wall. What to do? Michael squawks in his cage - he never speaks when the others have left, as if he knows it has no value. Not that it matters, but I don’t speak Bird either. Sunlight splashes onto the ceiling in frantic ripples but does not break the spell. Someone cries out a command into the rigging and the walls creak in response.
I glance across the low room at the bright fruit on the sideboard and stretch my lips. I bite the air, imagining the stiff, waxy skin flexing between my teeth and then that sharp, sweet sting of orange on my tongue. A breath of air touches the hairs on my neck, a glance at the door and I am there, right up beside the silver dish, fingers ready to pick. Michael stares but makes no noise, I pause, pluck one to my mouth and bite.
No comments:
Post a Comment