Loud ochre walls,
upon which shadows flicker violently with the dying embers
of a fire, and vanilla soy candles,
across the sharp planes of a woman’s unlined face:
sallow cheeks lightly dusted with rouge and
eyelashes heavily inked;
a subtle pout about her over-lined lips.
Glassy green eyes, that roam aimlessly and rest just above
a television crackling static noise that
clashes with the hum of the radiator near the bed;
the phone on the nightstand is silent.
The bed, draped in satin sheets and bear fur that still smells like
pine needles, ocean breeze, apple cinnamon,
all pure beeswax—
The warm ochre neutralized with the coming of twilight,
fades to black with the dusk
of sun and fireplace;
a hungry mosquito flies in from the open window, curtains blowing,
and crawls toward its prey.
The only things now illuminated in the darkness:
curly auburn hair, six glasses emptied of red wine, a silent phone, two wedding rings:
one on her finger, one on the nightstand.
The heat shuts off with a click, the TV screen goes black, outside
tires cease to turn, passing voices fade into their own houses;
only crickets fill her ears.
A sudden sigh, she snuffs the candles and kisses the pillow; curtains blowing, a sudden chill
as the mosquito inches forward once more, and stabs, sucks—
an audible gasp—belly full, it alights the windowsill, then exits
The waiting room.