This morning sees Bridget poking one little black-stockinged foot out from inside her black cloud, testing the temperature, seeing if the fabric of the sky might hold her after a week of sunshine drove her inside in all her pink-tinged, sunburnt glory. Overwhelm choked off the smile and she frowned, retreating to the curtain from where she peeks out now, unsure, hesitant.
I see you.
You don't see me.
Oh, yes I do.
Well then what do I look like?
Like a beautiful scowl with legs.
Dammit, you do see me.
I told you so.
Stop looking!
But still she smiles slightly. A little light escapes from around the curtain itself, spilling into the black, turning it shades of saturated, nuclear grey. The smile threatens from behind the facade of grumpy, bringing hope and possibilities to petulant nonsense, the stuff of invisible problems and wow, to be in her shoes proclamations. She takes it to heart. All of it. Every last thing.
Her heart is huge and fractioned now, crammed full, up to the rafters. More space needs to be rented but nothing is suitable and so they turn and press their backs up against the bulk, pushing with their legs, shoving it in and then slamming the doors tightly, the lock threatening to burst open, bending metal, straining bolts until the squeeze liquifies solids and they begin to run down her sleeves. She wipes her little hands on her cloud and pretends she can't see her heart but it's there, and boy does that ever bring relief on a dark rainy day like today.
