Oh, no. Not again, says the little girl, swirling around inside her mother’s coffee cup. It must be morning.
The fidgets come like birds. The rust colored curtains decorated with images of giant fingered citrines, on the closed windows, bluster. She looks at the mysteriously moving curtains out of the corner of her eye, never certain what she’s seen. She’s been catching them at it for years, and doesn’t ask anyone. Because maybe it’s her eyes, or worse, her brain. Maybe it’s her mother’s hatred of her, because she’s so pretty, that gets in the curtains. Even though she tries to be her mother as much as possible. Maybe it’s herself that gets in the curtains. Or maybe, somewhere, wind comes in from some neighbor’s air conditioning …