Flurries

Next to a window cut into the wall she lazes on the bed, elevated four feet off the ground, staring out at the snow flurries. The ones closest to her window pass by lazily, big white flakes of ice floating on gently past. In the distance, millions more whirl and spin interrupting the picture of trees, buildings, cars. The scent of rich chocolate permeates the air. Soft Japanese music intonates in the background, sung in the style of 1920s Western lounge. It is foreign exotic and familiar at the same time. The music even crackles like they do on the old grammaphones. She wants to be captured in sepia, she wants to crackle too. She wants to lie back, adorned in strings of pearls and heavily made-up smoky eyes, silk satin dresses that occasionally reveal a flash of inappropriate skin. A thigh, a curve of breast. Just a lady regaling in her bed, waiting for her day to be brought to her on a gold platter. Just closing her eyes for a second, the cold air seeping into the heated air inside, someone rubbing her feet firmly...

A mouse it is crudely sketched and cartoon-figured. Boca Joe is its name. It tugs on her ankle, gnaws her toes. It brings technology, bright flourescent and emails and the real world. It has a high, whiny voice, squeaks squeaking.

She is here, a college student in sweats and a grey long-sleeved shirt shrinking slow from the wash, orange socks on her feet, slightly dirty. She has class in an hour, she has to trudge in the snow in her dirty black coat, she has to live her life in a suburban town, she has to settle. She has to wait. She has to compromise.


But she had that few minutes, at the very least.