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The Yellow Room

In her roguish manner, she hinted at frittering away afternoons in a Soho flat, she, a thief of azure spaces, drifting. A spark in her eyes ignited in me a sense of what I had lost: lemons and their rind, my favorite tea cups, my old love seat back at the country house. I recalled a war of stones fought inside a thorny marriage. Younger than I, my daughter’s best friend, she had the gift of not entirely growing up. She struggled to lift one leg through her peach-colored panties.

"Where’s your spirit, Sarge? Bit of a grump, you are."

I was distracted by the street bustle outside, everyone carrying on, so forgetful. Soon those streets would be empty. Soon the invaders would descend into subways or ascend into the top floors where the idea of an alien conquest was dismissed. Who would be the Masters of Piccadilly Square? The mistresses who washed sheets before the peel of sirens? The concrete faces of lions. The bloodhounds at night, silenced, limping.

Story by:

Kyle Hemmings

sacerb2@yahoo.com

submitted at 9:56pm

27 April 2009