She People
The grass is so in need of trimming it has forgotten which way to grow. Smell the stems of rosemary and the trace of mint growing in it’s afternoon shadow. She wades through the teased strands of green to the opposite side of the yard; to the roses. The rose heads fan their petals as she inspects them carefully. She choses and open face and swiftly snaps it’s long neck from the bush. “Sorry” slips out of some voice in her head, one most likely influenced by the ageless hippies she spent summers with in the Trinity Alps. “Make me an Angel, that flies from Montgomery” she sings, placing the white rose above her ear, knowing that its presence makes her resemblance to Billie Holiday that much more apparent. Her red shorts hug her hips high. She tip toes back to the house, it’s ruby grapefruit color glowing like a sunset. She swoops up a handful of mint on her way, excitingly swaying her hips for the promise of mojitos. She drinks.
Eleanore’s yellow vw bug wears it’s age in rust stains along its mid section. Eleanore wears a black turtle neck that accentuates the sharp angles at her shoulders and elbows. She speeds the yellow bug down a street lined with palm trees. All the windows are open and her long silver hair flies out the window, painting white flames along the driver’s side. She turns up the volume on Joni Mitchell and peels tightly around a corner. “I been sitting up waiting, for my sugar to show, I been listening to the sirens and radio,” she sings and consults her wrist watch with a knowing glance. She is the sugar.
Dena paints the inside of her bedroom a mute green. The phone rings. She puts down her brush. Her footsteps crinkle over yesterday’s headlines. Her warm, brown hands pick up the white telephone. “Hello? No she’s not here. Who? Billie. I’ll tell her you called. sure, goodbye” She hangs up and stars out the open kitchen window at the Lavender growing softly in the front yard. The front gate swings open and clicks shut, shaking the white pickets all the way down the line. She hears sirens.
