An empty house, but she does not live there. The family has gone, and a soft knock wakes the room and breaks her reverie. They climb the stairs, take seeds in a broken cup, and sit in the sun. He sits and enjoys the heat, the garden, the chipmunks that vie for the seeds. She sits, enjoys, and wishes for him to touch her. The clouds move slowly, spun cotton streaked and pulled. She strokes the soft, striped balls of warmth and wishes for the moment to live on. Moments of blissful silence.

She sits in an emerald field, multi-toned grass swaying in a violent breeze. Towering storm and bright blue tease and torment each other, as a small purple diamond is lost in the expanse. It sways, shudders, twists and cowers; a thunderclap rocks the foundations of the earth, and the violet kite falls, followed by the first wave of drops. She sits, and waits. The wind whips her hair, stretches her back, snakes the limp string on the ground. The grass hides her. Its coarse edges move through her thin dress and dig into her ample thighs. Moments of wistful silence.

She sits beside him, watching the gears and the process move: slow, so slow. A small touch, a brilliant play. Glass chimes on glass, and the piece is moved aside. The dark room looses light as the pawn is thrown from the glare of the lamp, sitting dejectedly on the side, waiting for the next game. She sits, and waits, the two boys pitting drunken intelligence against drunken aggression. Knees touch, but no reaction. A collection of dark glasses catch the dim light, and toss a handful of dark patches across the dingy room. She wishes he would look over, smile at her. Moments of fretful silence.

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