01-19-2014, 08:24 PM
It is bright and it is morning. It is something like morning, by which we mean: there is sunlight. There is sunlight streaming in through the windows from some direction or other, as sunlight is wont to do. What Sera calls morning most of the western world calls mid-afternoon, and the day is so startlingly, spectacularly warm for mid-January that everyone keeps leaving the doors and windows open.
Everyone, at the moment, meaning: Serafíne.
She is the only one in the room.
Sera sits barefooted and crosslegged on the table in the midst of the bright white kitchen. There are pastries left over from the morning rush. The morning rush when whoever crashed somewhere in the house the night before woke to early coffee and tousle-headed, zombified housemates rushing off to the service-jobs for which their liberal arts degrees have qualified them. The pastries are on a plate and the plate is white and porcelain and ringed with two thin bands, one silver and one gold. There are crumbs, left behind. Someone - probably Dee - though to cover it with plastic wrap.
For later.
For her.
Sera is not eating the pastries. Dan promised her eggs. When did he promise her eggs? It was yesterday or tomorrow, and either one feels just fine with her. She is a little bit hung over and her tongue feels thick and that's fine too. She can feel it all the way down her throat, connected to some rootless core in the center of her body, which she thinks of like a molten sun or -
or -
Oh, it feels nice to breathe. The circulation of blood through her lungs is a particular and pungent mystery and sometimes the contemplation thereof arrests her. There is the spark and there is the ash and there is the salt on her tongue.
It is not as bitter as you may imagine.
And here is the figure of a woman at the edge of the room.
--
"Hey you're up. I didn't hear you." When Dan comes in, he walks right through her. "How do you want your eggs?" Of course he walks right through her.
" I wanna go to the park, today." She's everything. She's everywhere. "And my eggs - make them sunny side up."
Everyone, at the moment, meaning: Serafíne.
She is the only one in the room.
Sera sits barefooted and crosslegged on the table in the midst of the bright white kitchen. There are pastries left over from the morning rush. The morning rush when whoever crashed somewhere in the house the night before woke to early coffee and tousle-headed, zombified housemates rushing off to the service-jobs for which their liberal arts degrees have qualified them. The pastries are on a plate and the plate is white and porcelain and ringed with two thin bands, one silver and one gold. There are crumbs, left behind. Someone - probably Dee - though to cover it with plastic wrap.
For later.
For her.
Sera is not eating the pastries. Dan promised her eggs. When did he promise her eggs? It was yesterday or tomorrow, and either one feels just fine with her. She is a little bit hung over and her tongue feels thick and that's fine too. She can feel it all the way down her throat, connected to some rootless core in the center of her body, which she thinks of like a molten sun or -
or -
Oh, it feels nice to breathe. The circulation of blood through her lungs is a particular and pungent mystery and sometimes the contemplation thereof arrests her. There is the spark and there is the ash and there is the salt on her tongue.
It is not as bitter as you may imagine.
And here is the figure of a woman at the edge of the room.
--
"Hey you're up. I didn't hear you." When Dan comes in, he walks right through her. "How do you want your eggs?" Of course he walks right through her.
" I wanna go to the park, today." She's everything. She's everywhere. "And my eggs - make them sunny side up."
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula