In this room veiled in a gossamer thin layer of dust as if it had lain untouched waiting her return, she could feel herself slowly disassemble. Her reflected features moved out of focus, waiting for her to pull the image back, feature by feature from the secret place in her head where desire had formed and hidden it. The place where she had hidden her secret self from the burden of duty endlessly turning like wheels grinding tarmac drowning out the view and the sound of a voice that no longer took the time listen to.
Slowly she traced the line of a bottle with her outstretched finger. Cold hard glass with acute edges pulled and turned into something beautiful playing with the light. Pulling it in and reflecting it back softly distorted, like the sun on a lake arousing a recurring dream. A dream that she might stroll into its depths and simply vanish, leaving all she had ever been neatly folded on its banks to confound a world that refused to understand.