We should talk about those hand prints. There they are, high up on the wall and on the ceiling. They’re red, congealed.
I don’t bring it up.
Neither will you. I know you won’t.
We’re going to pretend. Pretend we don’t see them. There’s no reason to look there, if we pretend we don’t see them.
An old grandfather clock in another room raises its broken voice on the midnight hour. Its dull croak crawls under the crack between the door and the floor, barely audible.
Outside a cold night rain speaks in a steady static on the slate roof tiles. A barren, black tree moans and twists in the wind like a trapped and wounded animal.
A far off train whistle reminds us of the distance between this world and that. Time stands still like a held breath – like cold fear.
We should talk about those hand prints. There, up high. On the ceiling and wall – in red.
I look into your eyes, searching for a sign.
The lamp flickers, for a moment – threatens to leave us to the night. Darkness kisses the room.
Outside, the rain, and nothing; a world asleep. Bloated black clouds press down with their pregnant bellies.
We should talk about those hand prints. They’ll be gone by morning. They always are.
But, we don’t.
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