Light passes through the thin rice paper lantern, its glow warm and comforting. On the line lies a string of freshly washed bras, their medley of soft colors recalling scoops of pastel sorbet in an ice cream shop. The chill from outside cuts through the balcony window but somehow it has not even begun to affect her.
One ticket. It sits in the mahogany drawer-- clean and crisp--buffeted between sheafs of related documents. In less than ten days she will be home.
* * * * * *
Upcoming adventures in another country where sugar cane is squashed in between wooden grinders, yielding a most refreshing drink, so perfect on a dry, hot day. Dust will kick up all around them once more, a reddish clay mist no longer, but a golden yellow one instead. There will be pineapples dipped in salt and chili flakes, just like she had told them once before. Just like on that one hot and humid day when the cockroaches ran wild and there was salt in a green glass bottle.
Looking at shiny circles have become painful, despite the warm light glinting softly off the edges. The curve of every letter on the surface recalling a certain movement, a mannerism. It's unfair.
New sounds have been drifting out, but it always leads back to the same thing.
There is no escape, it seems.
The grey hairs begin to silently grow.
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