The Indigo Hour
There is a couch where you sit in the evening. It is covered in blue suede and a hiccup. It looks Victorian and feels safe. Your head aches. You are trying to write things down in a way that matters. She wears white and sits down next to you. You acknowledge her with a scratch on the shoulder and turn away. Her bare feet dangle over one end of the couch. Her pinky toe has a chip in the smooth brown polish and she's bobbing her foot. Tell me a story she says, leaning against your back. You can feel the vertebrae in her spine align with yours. She rocks to and fro. You turn and face her with a sheet of paper. Fishing is what you write. She offers you and smirk and clears her throat. She begins curing ailments found in silence.