BEDROOM is the last stamp on your passport. Across your chest, down the length of your skin (and bone), the weight of feathers. You are pinned. Butterfly, bird, chrysalis. Must we all desire flight? New horizons? You can see all the way to the end of your bed and this is far enough. Close one eye and your nose is a mountain, the world at its summit. Take a bath, they say, a lengthy lavender…
Nothing stirred on the frosted fields. Ducks rose off the river silent as commas. Elizabeth pulled her coat tight. Cloudlets fluttered from her mouth as she bowed her head and traipsed on, catching sight as she did of her muddy hem. Just as the first low fingers of sun were extending their reach she looked up to see a figure approaching in an overcoat, unbuttoned. He strode towards her, not yet aware of her, shirt…
Another red light. He palms his chin, taps the steering wheel. Sport-plus-shopping traffic. Next to him his wife is silent. What a way to spend Saturday morning, stuck in the car with her in a mood. His head hurts from last night. That’s why she’s pissed off. Green, but only two cars make it through. The hulking yellow and blue sign taunts in the distance. Bloody IKEA. He can’t stand the place. Full of pregnant…