She took her pills like communion; "The body of Christ." "Amen." and sat down in a wooden chair facing the window. In her left hand was a scotch on ice. In her right hand was a lit cigarette. Dinner, so aptly named. She lifted a leg up to rest it on the back of another wooden chair in front of the window. The orange light poured in.
She looked like a flapper you know, with a bob haircut, and a short black dress, well nightgown, that didn't reach midthigh. One of the thin straps of her dress fell off her shoulder but she didn't bother to fix it. All she needed was a long strand of pearls to dance the Charleston, knotted at the center spot under her breasts, and she would have been right from the 20s. But that necklace she wasn't allowed. It would become a neuse, so her neck was free of crosses and stars and pentacles. She rubbed where one would be and took another drag of the cigarette and another sip of the scotch, the coldness of the glass reddening her hand, stinging her. It didn't matter. All was blank as she stared out the window during each dusk.
Her ankle was resting on the back of her chair, and her neatly polished toes were starting to chip. She wore an anklet on her left, a bulky purple magnet with hematite and glass beads. Her smooth, bare legs were inappropriately spread, and if anyone who was below her on a balcony could see, they'd see black silk panties. The short line of the dress would not conceal anything, and she felt there was nothing to conceal. But she didn't have a balcony or patio or sliding doors that would allow her to feel a gentle breeze. She took another bite of dinner and continued to stare at the sunset.
It was the same thing every day. Once home her keys would rustle as they were thrown on the floor. Her briefcase would fall and lean against the wall as she would toss off her business jacket onto the couch and disrobe. She would seductively undo each button of her blouse, undo her bra and let it fall to the ground. Her skirt would slink down her legs as she would almost tear at her nylons trying to get them off. Her jagged nails always caught the microscopic seams. She'd replace the stockings with an anklet and then walk to her closet. She'd pick out and wear a piece of lingerie, grab her "Dinner" and take her pills. And then she'd wait at the window for her lover.
The phone would ring. But she was blank. The neighbor would stop by, but she was blank. She would close her eyes and breathe deeply, and then stare at the setting sun.
She finished her dinner with another drag and leaned back looking at the ceiling and blew a puff of smoke up. She placed the glass with all the others on her wooden desk. Each one had ashes and a butt scrunched in the middle. Her strap fell some more when she leaned down to examine her cherry but chipped toes. A grimace was seen on her face, ruining the peaceful blankness.
She put her leg down and changed her position in the chair, spreading her legs around the seat of it and resting her chin on her arms on the back. She tilted her head slightly and sighed staring due west at the warm color palette changing before her. She'd rub her thigh at intervals, as if the sun would give her pleasure. But of course the response was only blank.
When the sun would finally rest in its bed of blues and purples, she would get up and turn the chairs around. She'd straighten her dress and unmake her bed. The earthen colors would pull her and strap her down as if in confinement. She fiddles with her alarm, knowing it wouldn't be long before she'd see the sun again. She turned around and closed her eyes dreaming of nothing but blank.