lowly, quarantine

She stretches her browned legs under the heat of the sun, the rays casting a silky warmth, the shadows cascading through the room. Her long auburn waves flow off the two-seater and flirt with the ground. She lifts them, as if to say, that’s not where you belong, as if to save them. They swiftly fall back down, where they continue to tease the umber wood panels.

The whistle of a phone draws her attention back to the coffee table, which it lays upon. A kaleidoscopic pile of books, a white flowered mug half empty, a leafy green plant waterfalling down the edge — all signs that life lives here, on this table. She eyes each one of these items, as to reconfirm their existence, and hers. She does not look at the phone.

A headache grazes the tips of her temples. A tightness in her jaw. A tenseness in her shoulder. A click in her wrist. It’s a mystery where these invisibilities originate from. Sometimes, as if to rescue her from them, there will come a minute humanistic revival. Looking over her shoulder as she lays, a beautifully small yellow plane from the nearby airport will make its journey. A hearty laugh will escape an unsuspecting mouth. A drop of rain will kiss a window, the first of many little proclamations of love. In those small moments, the pain seems to disintegrate.

She sits up on the dim, grey love-seat. Disappointedly, she examines it, deciding that it has not enough space for even one, let alone two. After hours of using its own leather, she deems it no longer worthy, and retreats back to her bedroom. There is a stark contrast here, there is but little sign of life. Her phone whistles again. Now that she is in the other room, it’s a muffled sound, dulled down almost to the point of hallucination.

The whistle is enigmatic, but painful. There’s not a lack of curiosity, rather a trepidation regarding outcome. Besides, those messages are not her. They do not define her, do not speak for her. She thinks these thoughts as she lays atop her white sheets, adorned only by the dark cloak streaming through the window that begins to signal the end of a day. There lays three pieces of chocolate on the shaky table at the side of her bed, and she reaches for them. “I’m going to eat these for dinner”, she concludes.

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Drama queen. Lover of white roses. Once forgot all forms of identification, but still made it to New York, so also a go-getter.

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Annika Dasani

Annika Dasani

Drama queen. Lover of white roses. Once forgot all forms of identification, but still made it to New York, so also a go-getter.

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