the idea approached slowly
as if dreading itself
it paced near the backdoor
not ready for the lights and linoleum
of the kitchen
She looked out the backdoor in no John Fogarty type of mood. There was no "why" to the fact that she was standing there. The kitchen smelled of eaten potroast, a sink full of warm soapy water, and the kind of brumal air circulation that leaves something to be desired. She stood as a bereft mother might, as if hoping that her runaway teenager would surface, silhouette first, from the edge of the neighbor's lawn. She wasn't moving, with the exception of her left hand which fingered the embroidery of her sweater. It was unravelling. She was helping it.
The fly that sped past her didn't know what her deal was. It went straight for the dessert dishes next to the sink. It wasn't fucking around. It did not care.
She looked at the neighbors' tree house, and had the fly stopped to absorb the situation, it would have pinned her expression as nostalgic and assumed that she, too, had had a tree house as a child. It would have been wrong.
The idea didn't want to come inside.
It was content to hide behind the boards of the treehouse and bury itself in the embroidery of her sweater.
It didn't mind waiting.
It was in no rush.
She sat at the kitchen table.
The idea shared dessert with the fly and they left together, buzzing nonchalantly through the house.
She looked at the far end of the tablecloth, the subtle film of dust on the windowsill, the TV that wasn't on. She looked at her hands. She looked at the place where the wall met the ceiling.
She did the dishes.