It's Still Life

At the Intersection of Odd Numbers:
A New Beginning (Parts 1 & 2)

Brigid’s back in the city, mop in hand, crow in tow, and at the intersection of odd numbers, the door to something new just creaked open. (A Six Sentence Story — Prompt: “cross”)

A Mop and Bucket (Part 1)

Brigid coaxes the grime from the sash windows, her cloth moving in slow, deliberate circles until the panes surrender the city’s grey light and the persistent hum of traffic outside.

Steam hisses from the aluminium bucket as the wood soap meets hot water, and the mop slides over the floorboards in a rhythmic slap and drag, sending her crow into a flurry of indignant coughs and a hasty retreat across the dampening terrain.

She hums a half-remembered tune, A Little Wicked , which swells into a belted lyric when a forgotten line resurfaces: 🎶 No one calls you honey when you’re sitting on a throne, a private performance for the crow, now locked in combat with the string mop, until a sharp rap on the door severs the song.

Brigid props the mop and bucket in the corner, their work interrupted; Pierre is standing in the hallway, his apron a canvas of tonight’s specials, eyes twin pools of darkness and light, his grey-streaked hair framing a smile as broad and self-assured as his shoulders.

“So, you’re back,” he says, unreadable and casual, the words trailing behind him as he walks past her, a cross between invitation and intrusion, into the heart of the reclaimed room, “Dinner?”.

She shakes her head, “Not tonight, I’ve plans,” then hands him a yellow Post-it bearing a four-course Scottish menu and adds, “Table for two, tonight at 18:30, in my name — and please, Pierre, not too Frenchified,” to which he snorts, “Haggis,” and disappears into the kitchen to put the kettle on, muttering, sauvez-nous de Mel Gibson. (… continued below)

The Key and The Gatekeeper (Part 2)

We slip easily into silly humour and re-plumb familiar depths over a four-course Scottish feast — Pierre orchestrates the flavours from behind the scenes, candlelight flickering in the hearth-warm quiet of Arpège.

A waiter emerges like a figure from an Edward Gorey dream: age-furrowed, cloaked in quiet, refilling Nick’s glass with a murmured, “More wine, sir,” before vanishing into the shadows, and Nick resumes his telling of Scotland, “…walked glens, lochs dark as polished slate,” his eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as if it holds his memory, “and there in the Highlands the noise of the world fell away; far from any other soul, and in that silence, I heard the truth I’ve always carried within me.”

Brigid knows this kind of quiet: it is not reinvention, it’s sculpting … peeling away layers — and then his focus shifts, “You’re not going to ask what truth I found?” he asks, and Brigid is still, eyes smiling, “No, you’d have told me if you wanted me to know.”

His look sharpens, focused: “And what of your truth, Brigid?” … she pauses, as if working out a secret punishment, “Let the dead Past bury its dead,” and glances away, setting a small wooden box between them on the table: one Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona cigar and a brass skeleton key inside — “Choose a conversation,” she smiles; he laughs, and chooses the key.

She feels a quiet delight rise within her, “At the intersection of 3rd Street and 9th Avenue is the old curio shop — it’s a florist now, the one with the red door — the florist wants to retire,” … Brigid takes a sip of water, mouth dry with excitement, “I’ve taken over the lease, renaming it Floriconica, like floriography,” and Nick leans back with a low whistle, “fuck me…” and Brigid continues, “ —flower bouquets, yes, but also bespoke posies, coded arrangements… and a thought crossed my mind; that red door: I want it painted black.”

He doesn’t answer, only nods — slow, certain, knowing it will shine in the daylight and disappear at night, “Black… the void before creation,” he whispers, and slips the cigar into his pocket, because a good cigar is so difficult to find nowadays.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “cross”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.