It's Still Life

Previous instalments of this story: Part 1: The Pull Back   Part 2: The Measure of Her    Part 2: The Gatekeeper’s Response  Part 3: The Colour of Walls   Part 4: Tectonic Shifts  Part 5: Out of the Frying Pan  Part 6: How to Break Eggs Part 7: A Moon River  Part 8: Starlight Shines on the Roof  Part 9: Before When   Part: 9.1 Flower Power

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At the Intersection of an English King and a Saint
Part 2: The Measure of Her

The key slides in the lock, and we’re inside.

“An enviable NE to SE aspect,” says the estate agent, “with original sash windows, and a space-saving pull down bed,” and when I ask what size sheets will fit it, she flicks two fingernails together as if communicating in morse code, and says, “I have no measurements on that feature: it’s not like it’s a recipe, luv …”

… I can’t help it, my thoughts wander, unquieted – why can’t the world standardise measurements: I mean 5 grams of table salt is not quite but almost 3/4 teaspoon, which is a shovel-load more than a pinch …and I remember my grandmother gave me a rye bread recipe that required her china teacup for measuring, but nobody knew what happened to her teacup after she died, so no one could figure out the recipe; we bought rye bread for years after that –

and I check to see if the sash windows are still painted shut, which they’re not,

and back when I lived here, when everyone was making beer bread, I was the one simmering tomato sauce with pin-pricked chilli peppers, chopped black olives and smashed sardines on spaghetti while drinking flat champagne out of a hand-painted china teacup that I bought in an antique shop where I worked whilst studying typing, shorthand and nearly-but-not-quite failing bookkeeping 101 … and by the way, a silver spoon in a champagne bottle doesn’t preserve its fizz; only drinking it quicker does.

“Some modifications have been made over the years,” the estate agent says, “like a shower, sink, and toilet, which reduced the size of the kitchen by a smidgeon,” … and although I don’t say so, I don’t think a full-term pregnant woman could achieve a 180-degree turn without wedging herself like a doorstop in this loo, which is okay by me because I don’t intend to get pregnant. I have more a mind to talk the trousers off someone by distracting one leg at a time.

How easy it is to be drawn off track, thoughts that wander into a flow of ink – and I remember back when I lived here the sound of tyres humming their husky breath could send me to sleep; I was young and childless, with plenty of time, eyeshadow and mascara and long black hair and pale skin that melted into moonlight.

“I’ll take it,” I smile, and we walk back to her office where I sign the purchase agreement: Brigid (and a long squiggling surname that looks like lassoed smoke).

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story include the word “slide”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.