Nov 09, 2009 14:54
Beginning of a very sad story.
It seems like a sad, lonely day, and the ladybugs feel it too. They're the last of the season, crawling diligently across 8th floor windowscreens to remind the lonesome inhabitants of the building that it's time to pull out their boxes of sweaters. In one apartment, a slightly molded sham of a cardboard box is already spilling its contents on the floor, argyle and grandmother-knitted and expensive cashmere all haphazardly moving from their summer storage to take rightful place in the chill glow of the autumn clouds.
She's not quite sure why she brought them out in the first place.
The sweaters aren't hers, and she won't be here in a few days, but it feels right to repeat this November ritual. The sweaters deserve their moment, to breathe and be free from seasonal confinement. She might take some home, although her tiny Berkeley apartment has no more shelf space and more than enough sweaters to weather the meteorological mistake that California calls winter. She decides to bring the hand-knitted, oddly-baubled concoctions with their familiar scent of apple crisp and Pine-Sol. They had both loved their grandmother, so it seemed right.
The rest of the box was neatly hung in the closet alongside an army of Little Black Dresses and a substantial collection of leggings and trench coats. Her sister had fancied herself something of an Olsen twin, it appeared. That explained a lot. She re-made the bed with fresh sheets and cleaned the few sad carrots and bananas from the kitchen, stacking the meagre selection of plates and silverware in a pleasing fashion on the counter; there was no dishwasher, but that was unsurprising in this neighborhood, and wouldn't disappoint the majority who came through to see the space. Someone at the estate sale would happily buy the state-of-the-art, possibly never used drying rack that stood next to the sink. She half-heartedly checked the freezer, wasn't sure what to feel when she found it as empty as she had expected.
And with a breath to steady her hesitant hands, she pushed herself back into the bedroom to address the bookshelf.
She found the notes.
writing