| This is how it happened. I closed my eyes and saw little floating scraps, scraps of woven cloth. Gauze, lace, tulle, the most fragile squares raveling at the edges, the size of postage stamps.
The outline of a portrait was barely visible, stamped in ink on this scrap in pale blue or that in ivory. The face was not visible with the direct glance. It was always necessary to partly look away. Even then only the shadow of hair along the neck left much of an impression. Daylight in the room. The sensation of a blue gaze ripples through the scraps. Curtains part. You might not think that was enough. It was mostly enough. But there was also the lunch porcelain and the thought of plums. And the lowering of the eyes. And that sudden contrast in temperature. Enough. My hands lie curled inert on my chest like sleeping baby hands or the claws of a dead bird. |