Window Seat in the Den
Wind-blown rain cascades from a dark swollen sky. Its relentless
attack upon the roof of the house causing a staccato beat that echoes
through the rooms. A flash of lightning, then another, breach the
sullen darkness of the den, followed quickly by thunder that rolls
across the valley and off into the distance.
The storm only adds to the drama of the novel she’s chosen
to partake of on this rainy afternoon. The volume, a new romantic
tragedy, grips her as she moves from one page to the next.
Biting her upper lip, as she is prone to do, the narrative carries her
off to some far away exotic local, filled with wonders and marvels,
people of dark intrigue, and of course romance.
Another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder that rattles the adjacent
windows, precedes the plunging of a dagger deep into the chest of her
ruddy paladin. She shutters reflexively at the shear horror that the line invokes
dropping the book into her lap. She becomes aware of her racing heart,
her shortness of breath, and a light film of sweat upon her brow.
She slowly stands and stretches the taunt muscles in her lower back. She
stomps blood back into her feet that have gone numb from sitting for
far too long. The downpour has subsided and the stormy skies are moving
off to the east. She reverently lays the novel on the window sill next to
a vase of freshly picked flowers and walks away. Silently, under her breath,
she vows to return again tomorrow to her time machine, her magic carpet,
her window seat in the den.
Artista di Parole