The unlit candles flicker behind me, they shimmer in and out of the reflection in the window as the sun comes and goes. I watch. The pale net curtains flutter, a draft from somewhere in the space behind me. The image of the candlestick is blurred and then settles. I watch.
The glass in my hand is cold, crisp, fragrant. Through it I see the darkness of my stockings, they are soft, new, freshly applied to my newly moisturised legs. My hair, still wet, is beginning to curl upon the soft fabric of my dress, The sharpness of my heel was a deliberate contrast to this as was the white throw covering the chair on which I sit. I like contrasts. I like the sharpness of opposites. I like the definitiveness of it. White and black; dark or light; hot or cold; he loves me – he hates me…I watch.
The only noise comes from the traffic below. I hear the people getting in and out of bright yellow taxis, asking for exciting destinations full of hope or anxiety or uncertainty. I hear the feet on the tarmac, the slam of the doors, sometimes even the insincere sound of familial greeting. I realise to my own surprise that I always watched this and yet never noticed it before. The buzz, the noise, the people. I’ve never seen any of them the way I see the distorted details of the glass in my hand reflected in the bars of my perspective. I watch.
