A Study of Classicism
Moist twilight air spilled into the apartment through the door ajar. Red nailed fingertips grip the bronze knob, body turned against the vacuum, looking back. Eyes attentive, but brow furled, intolerant.
“You say you’d like to pray for what?” practically a snarl towards the maternal unit. Solitary, looming across the distance of the living room in the kitchenette she seemed to stare right through one’s bones. A couple advancing steps before speech fills the air.
“For a day when you will be free of all addiction. A day when you can be free.” sighed in a desperate hopefulness. The bronze knob clicks as an angry hand slides off. “Thanks,” from the door as a final gust ebbs in and out and the apartment is one less full.
Just before the entrance to the kitchenette cupboards become chair backs as the maternal unit slides down to the floor. “Puhhhhh,” a concentrated sigh. Feeling empty, used up.
:::
The portal to the bathroom swings open, sucking in the air from the hall and spilling out milky white steam. From the cloud emerges the broad shoulders and messy fade haircut that presented half the needed chromosomes for the girl. Some said the resemblance to one another was uncanny.
“Some men in suits came knocking at the door while you were in there, Dad. I think it must be the Mormons again,” laughing the words. “Or as Old Tomcat would say, ‘Mo-morons.’ Silly Tom!” exclamatory, jovial.
“Nah, it was probably the Italian Mob again,” casually, modestly humorous. The girl snorted, “Oh, yeah, them!” The two split opposite ways down the hall, chuckling inwardly and glowing around their hearts.
“You say you’d like to pray for what?” practically a snarl towards the maternal unit. Solitary, looming across the distance of the living room in the kitchenette she seemed to stare right through one’s bones. A couple advancing steps before speech fills the air.
“For a day when you will be free of all addiction. A day when you can be free.” sighed in a desperate hopefulness. The bronze knob clicks as an angry hand slides off. “Thanks,” from the door as a final gust ebbs in and out and the apartment is one less full.
Just before the entrance to the kitchenette cupboards become chair backs as the maternal unit slides down to the floor. “Puhhhhh,” a concentrated sigh. Feeling empty, used up.
:::
The portal to the bathroom swings open, sucking in the air from the hall and spilling out milky white steam. From the cloud emerges the broad shoulders and messy fade haircut that presented half the needed chromosomes for the girl. Some said the resemblance to one another was uncanny.
“Some men in suits came knocking at the door while you were in there, Dad. I think it must be the Mormons again,” laughing the words. “Or as Old Tomcat would say, ‘Mo-morons.’ Silly Tom!” exclamatory, jovial.
“Nah, it was probably the Italian Mob again,” casually, modestly humorous. The girl snorted, “Oh, yeah, them!” The two split opposite ways down the hall, chuckling inwardly and glowing around their hearts.