Wildline

The petunias are lovely today, their pistils shimmering, petals lazily grappling onto the autumn breeze. A few dandelions snuggle beside their more elegant sisters, be it from neglectful gardening, or simple indifference to them. Looking at the flowers from above is the old white house, standing tall, windows gazing. The wind carefully caresses the door open, but quickly disperses, as the inside is even chillier. Fine carpet adorns the floor, indigo colors swirling like sloshing water, the tackiness embracing beauty within. A coat rack greets the open door, with a wiry wave of its arms. Two cats hang from it, one blue and the other gray, both of good quality material, but show age with small tears in fabric. The only noise in the room is a buzzing television, though no one is watching. Besides the sofa there’s a fine table, with wooden vines carved into its bottom, and a large glass vase in the center. An empty glass of wine sits alone in the corner, neglected for so long that the red stains have become a dry pink. Behind it are paintings, one of a young boy in overalls, another of ancient Greek figures, and the final one, the grand Eiffel Tower. The lazy eyes of Paris, the true city of love, and bottomless well of souvenirs, were inescapable, no matter what room, there was always something, be it a bottle of champagne, a canvas painting of city evenings, or simply Euros that haven’t been converted, just to keep the memory alive.  Even the bathroom isn’t spared from its romantic gaze, with its soaps shimmering next to the faucet. In the kitchen there’s a marble counter, colored like white marble infested with embracing vinery. There’s a small ring of water, whatever drink was on there must have been carried off, yet the ring still remains. There were gold utensils, obviously not the genuine material but still finely made. The sink only has a few plates in it, each only having the stains of morsels. The humming fridge stores the past relics of evening dinner: meatloaf, cans of tuna, salad, and a slice of a half-eaten cake, saved for a day that never came. A monolithic case of wine is stored, with only a quarter full. The halls are bare, aside from a few boxes, each containing objects that hold too many memories for a single person to bear. There’s a small closet in the halls, holding a variety of items, non-perishable foods, a golf club, and whatever else that doesn’t have a place house, yet still belongs. a true Smorgasboard. Back in the living room, a grand staircase walks its way upward, and for every step, a painting adorns the wall. These paintings are more varied in tone, a calming sunset in Istanbul is paired next to a spiraling cacophony of abstraction, and so on. A Greek bust of a young woman greets the final step of stairs with its blind marble gaze, staring into all the time it has yet to lose. Beyond her, is a room that hasn’t been touched in a while. It’s draped in fabrics and beads and others of the same sort, a dress is held up by a gray mannequin. The green, flowing gown stretches to the floor, with beads and jewels sewn upon its skin. It’s unfinished, naked in a sense, but its beauty is that of canvas, the window letting the light grasp upon her gently, like marble sculpture. The door is shut, no one can see her, let her rest. On the opposing room, the one the bust leans toward ever so slightly, is the bedroom, draped in the darkness of an afternoon nap, there’s a bed flush with the wall, slippers under the mattress, where the unashamedly art nouveau frames would curl above the king and queen. But only a King sleeps tonight.