Don’t get any ideas, she heard. So she leaves the stove on and walks away, past a table decorated with an orange array of bottles with tops unpopped, their capsuled insides nestled against each other. A calendar of Mondays and Thursdays and Saturdays are silent, while the four others rattle loudly, prattling on and on in their colorful way.
Plans for a car and a house—a life—hang anxiously in the air and sink to the ground. But she props them back up like balloons blown by her own breath and expects them to float, expects them to hold her up and fly her north where she began.
The television screen watches her for nine hours a day while the sun only greets her for minutes on some. Somewhere between the two she thinks about the life she is living and waits for this suspension of time to end so she can go back to her store, her friends, her children. But the store’s been sold and her friends misplaced; her children have grown too tall.
Don’t get any ideas, they told her. You’re not done here yet.
Working Title - Don't get any ideas
Written in 2009, edited today with the help of Tifa