She frowns at her sunlit streaked window from a long winter’s grime. Stepping outside she feels the sun’s glow but, still too cool to make the windows squeal like giddy children.
In the meantime, she has plenty of work to do inside. She grabs a broom and eyes the corners of the ceiling in each room. The thought of uninvited guests make her want to scratch.
The front entrance is the next move. She unlocks the door and peaks to see if a neighbour is in the hallway before she steps out in her tattered old hoodie and black leggings.
lost in thought
broom raised automically
a dead fly falls
woven threads rip apart
spider – nowhere to be found
© Tournesol ‘16/03/22