Also, I thought I'd share the sequel to the bit I wrote yesterday, in case any of y'all are interested:
Her favorite part of their home was the attic. It was small, softly lit, and covered in warm colorful fabrics. This was where she would disappear to. She could spend hours in the attic and it would feel like no time at all. She loved the tactile nature of the attic. There were fabrics of all kinds; shiny silks, warm wools, soft cottons, and many more. It was a riot of colors, organized by the hues of a rainbow. His place was the kitchen. It was bright and sparse, with metal shining everywhere. Everything was neat and organized, just the way he liked it. There was a large window over the sink letting in all of the sunlight – he rarely turned a light on during the day. He loved to cook, she loved to sew. They loved to be with each other too, but sharing a life was not always easy.
One tragic afternoon they couldn’t bear to even look at each other for the moment. They had received horrible news after rushing to the hospital when she felt stabbing pains in her abdomen. When they came home she ran up to her attic and he drew himself deep into his kitchen. Pots clanged the knives made chopping, slicing, stabbing sounds. The pans sizzled as red, raw meat began to cook. It was quieter in the attic. The only sound was a whirr as she sewed the sleeves onto a new robin’s egg blue shirt for him. They continued in this way for hours; neither speaking, barely even thinking. More and more savory smells began to drift out of the bright, busy kitchen and started dispersing through the house. They danced through the dining room, strolled through the living room, meandered up the staircase and finally peeked into the attic. There, she was sewing buttons onto an ebony vest to go with the blue shirt for him.
After sensing cotton and wool for so long, the spices and citrus that came upon her from the kitchen were a shock. She smiled, a small watery smile, and breathed deeply. It wasn’t time to go yet, but it would be soon. She continued working on the vest and put the finishing touches on a plush, black, knitted scarf that she had been working on before; before this tragic day so it still held traces of the joy and hope that they had felt before. When she had finished making these things as beautiful as she could, and the smells from the kitchen were stronger than ever, she stood up and left the attic. She followed the smells down the stairs, thorough the large, soft living room, around the mahogany table, and into the metallic kitchen. She looked at him as he put the finishing touches on two plates. They had strength enough for each other. She gave him the shirt, vest, and scarf and he set the plates on the large dining room table in their still too empty house.
-Kat
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