She could feel it, him, he was just on the other side of everything, like a dark cloud just over the hill. If she were to squint her eyes tight enough they would soon reopen to his face casting down on her, she his little lamb. His hands would reach down, strong and calloused, and hold her cheek. She would wobble on the tips of her bare feet, her ankles running from out the bottom of her lace dress. She would swim in the fabric, wishing to be free of it so that she and he could be even closer.
She waited. She held her eyes closed for all the moments she could tolerate, praying for her effort to not be in vain. She opened. The room was still dull and dark, the only light pouring through the window over looking the grass land for miles beyond the house. The wallpaper still peeled like irritated skin, begging to be relieved from what it cling to. Her fingers traced the muted patterns of odd shaped stars and x’s. To her there was no beauty in this room; there was no potential for beauty, not unless he was there. She could only be beautiful in his arms.
She took the handkerchief from the window sill and held it up. She paced across the dusty floor and into the center of the room. It was as if she was in the center of a ballroom with no music of partner. The handkerchief hung limp in her hand as she held it up. She was reminded of a magic trick she had seen long ago. The magician, all decked out in a top hat as high as the ceiling and mustache waxed like the arms of a clock, would hold up a handkerchief like the one she held and bring it back down. When he did a dove appeared in his hand. She copied the magician’s motions, but nothing appeared. She held it up and down, again and again, only stirring the dusty floor. She held it up to throw the cloth when she noticed something. The light pouring through the window had created a shadow on the white. A round nose, messy hair, she could see this face. It was him.
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