She closed the door

She closed the door and a moment to dream was now closer. She took a record from her collection and placed it on the turntable. It crackled to life. The music matched the cool of the evening that had already started its descent.

The music drifted through the open window, dissipated in the evening breeze and floated into a carmine-carnation-peach sunset.  Waves of sound replaced waves of sound, flowed and mingled.  Before combined with after. A recognisable whole. Waves of sound.

The glow from a floor lamp, which stood to the back corner of the room, cast liquid shadows on the floor and up the walls.  Charleston tassles shimmered and choreographed a chorus of tiny dancers, who skirted the perimeter of the shade’s pitch; a circular dance from wooden floorboards, along walls and back to floorboards.   An oval shaped rug lay beneath a glass coffee table and disappeared beneath an enormous chaise lounge.  Smaller mats were strewn here and there, covering the main areas where feet trod. She reclined in the collapsed embrace of the sofa.  It retained its original embroidered cover, worn with time, but still in good condition.  Crystal and oak sidepieces comprised an antique collector’s field day.

The curtains maintained a limp flap, idle sails that rode the rising breeze. The phonograph, having completed its rotations, made a disconsolate scratch-thump noise.  She lifted the needle, removed the disk of pitch and sealed the dream in its envelope. The lifeless object, now clothed, filed neatly amongst many others of assorted shapes and sizes.

© Anthony Wood 2012


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