The one whose locket was a big black eye bumping against her breastbone.
|Artwork by Darryl Joel Berger.|
He gestured with his sandpaper chin towards her room: Go take it off.
She shook her head, hanks of hair popping out from behind her ears.
He shuffled his booted feet on the flagstones at the door and pursed his florid pink lips: Be careful with it, then.
She scowled magnificently.
(Her sister hopping in the living room. Her sister, her eyelids smudged like a newspaper, even freshly awoken.)
He left, his motorcycle having a coughing fit in the lane. Goggles lowered.
She spent part of the day staring at the picture of her mother as a girl. The one in the silver frame on the little table next to her father’s chair.
In the photo, her mother wore a knotted handkerchief. The knot rested on her breastbone. Mother, daughter, mustache, locket.
Her mother looked blank.
(Her sister hopped. Her hair needed brushing.)
* * *
Darryl Joel Berger said of this lunchtime collaboration, both of us hazy with summer, the work we're doing, and the work yet to be done:
"lucky #2; the second in a series of drawings that don’t have to mean anything; what they should do is act as a writing prompt, especially for certain meandering poets."
I think that last bit is unfair, but I appreciate Darryl's ability to draw florid mustaches, so I'm buttoning my lip...