curtains

The dry pasty smell of dust and paint…tell-tale leftovers from the morning’s work.

Sheer curtains barely move at the open window, not enough to call it a flutter. Shadows on the shade. Squares and rectangles, double rows of lines. Plaid patterns of sunlight shining through the panes.

The wind works a little sound out of the chimes outside. I hear children down the street. A distant car engine, and the tick, tick, ticking, or is it a nod, nod, nodding, of a small animal. Maybe one of the smaller woodpeckers working on a tree trunk.

Emotions that feel flat. So flat they feel oppressive. So flat they feel unworthy of a sunny almost-spring afternoon.