Friday, 12 September 2008

Worth waiting for

As the light suddenly faded into an unhelpful twilight, she put down the brush and stepped back from the painting. She caught sight of the kitchen, framed by the doorways and angles across the white hall. It looked like a chaotic still life, with everything sitting exactly as they had left it as they had finished lunch and said goodbyes.

She'd been painting since then, cold cup of tea untouched beside her, oblivious to the passing of the long afternoon into a pale blue evening. Deaf to the ecstatic buzzing of a drunk bluebottle who was held mesmerized in the mirror world of the oily salad bowl, and not caring about the accidental red wine bleeding into the grain of the table, she had missed the long drawn out drama of the left over Brie that had slowly wept onto the breadboard.

The thin silver song of a distant blackbird span through the house, like fine thread unravelling into all the corners and suddenly she felt the dragging accumulated weight of a relentless working week that had offered no space for creative musings, as it pulled down under her shoulders and behind her eyes. Kicking off her shoes, she climbed the stairs to bed.