Olivia, the confectioner, closed the small gate of the garden, the third house on the street, six thirty-seven in the afternoon. She felt the paint peeling between her fingers, the metal rough and cold. She strode to the door, passing by the long-forgotten vases, filled with stunted and stunted daisies. Climbed the stone steps, turned away from a small red stool where her daughter sat three months earlier to sing “Happy Night,” accompanied by the off-key sound of borrowed guitar.
Taking a deep breath, she paused at the door. Her eyes roamed the several slots of the old wooden door, peeled like the gate, but sprinkled with red paint, its old color. Soon, red would take over the whole piece.
The room lay silent and darkened that late afternoon, the shadows of the furniture stretching, attentive, just Olivia’s heavy breathing. She walked to the sofa, still marked by the countless times Jackie had sat there to read his father’s old books. She looked at the newly sewn cushion (for the fourth time), where her daughter used to rest her head. Now, forgotten at the foot of the chair, along with worn sandals Jackie had used to use.
It was getting dark. Olivia walked up the stairs slowly, after a frugal and tasteless dinner. Almost old food. The light from the front door cast darkened, shimmering shadows down the hall. She stopped in front of the entrance. The room outside of Jackie. The walls of the bare room curved, inquisitive. The doors of open, empty closets shook lightly with the wind, producing a constant hissing noise.
Olivia sighed. She continued to her room, dragging her feet without realizing it. Lay down. She did not change her clothes.
Olivia, the confectioner, closed the small oak door with one hand, holding a small bouquet in the other. Sunlight still lit the garden, and a fresh wind made the cultivated tulips so gently swing.
Humming softly, she crossed the newly trimmed lawn. She took a deep breath and her heart pounded. She knew the porch needed new, brighter colors now. She reached the steps and stood before the door. Slots went through the wood, and she felt it between her fingers, marks of herself mixed with the house.
The cool afternoon air had flooded the room, despite the heat of the day, and Olivia sat for a moment on the old couch to enjoy the sunset. She glanced at the book half open at the corner table. Her daughter was reading and forgetting there. She picked up the old tome, a smile coming from her lips. Stood up, the book in tow, and went to the office. Found what she wanted. A pen. She sat down on the stairs to the first floor, comfortably. She opened the book on the first blank page. She thought for a few seconds. Soon, the pen slid quickly into the yellowish sheet.