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The sun was bright and the sky was blue.  Atop the green grassy hill, Margaret had the perfect sightline to watch large, fluffy, cotton clouds as they were carried off by a cool, gentle breeze.  Just a turn of her head and she had the perfect sightline to watch Gary Ratchet, deeply immersed in a novel of philosophical nature.  

The fine auburn lowlights of his blonde hair glinted in the midday light.  His open-collar, button-down shirt hugged his powerful shoulders pleasantly.  

Her yellow sundress hugged her body firmly but without squeezing it and outlined her contours and accentuated her waist and hips.  The sun glistened on her white-gold skin and flowing hair.  She was beautiful.  He was Beautiful.  Together they were stunning.  She let herself bask in the image of the two of them stretched out on the checkered blanket, surrounded by fine eats and drink, before Gary closed his book with a snap.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Oh, I was just looking at you.”  Her smile coy.

Gary leaned in close. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it’s so.”  She smirked.

He reached his hand out behind her head, pulled her in for a kiss, and…”

Margaret Annabelle Lee awoke with a snortle.  Looking around, she found herself in the green fabric chair that centered her conveniently in the living room.  There she could overlook the fireplace, as well as the front door, and she was only yards from the kitchen.  She had sat down after dressing for a dinner out with her two children and granddaughter.  

Some time during her daydream, the sun had begun to set.  A cold, heart-sinking darkness fell on the mass of the open room.  The only exception, an amber plane of light which snuck in through the side window.  Margarette watched dust particles swim and float in the orange glow.  One by one, they sunk down and laid to rest on the well-worn leather chair beside the fire.  Jacob’s chair.

Margarette took a deep breath mustering the will to leave her patch of warm, green, comfort.  She carefully swung forward to obtain her gold headed cane off the carpet beside her: a protest against the more ergonomic but altogether unsightly medically recommended options.  Margarette planted its end solidly on the floor and used both it and the chair arms to rise to a stand.  She had learned to like the sound the cane made with her footsteps; together they made a sort of “clack-thump-thump,” “clack-thump-thump.”  Which was so much better than just a “thump-thump.”

Margaret clack-thump-thumped her way to the coatrack by the front door, and liberated a timeless black overcoat from its branches.  While pulling her arms through its sleeves, she caught a glance of herself in the spotted hallway mirror.

Margaret frowned at the sagging skin which hung from her eyes, cheeks, and chin.  Applying foundation and eyeshadow before her unexpected nap had not improved their state.  She smoothed her thin grey hair back towards the meager bun she had crafted earlier.  Inspecting the profile of her nose and ears, she scrunched her face in distaste.  

She pinched at the flab on the back of her arm with the hope that, this time, it would magically shrink back against smooth bones.  The peeling ivy wallpaper behind the mirror, made her blotchy, purple dress look clownish.  It was fitted to avoid the unshapely features of her body: and the pattern, much in the spirit of a tablecloth, was meant to distract the eyes from stains and faults.  She gave up on maximizing beauty years ago, and instead resigned herself to minimizing damage.  The result was a closet filled with such compromising outfits.  She sighs to the mirror, and her reflection does to her.  I'm on my way out, she thinks and hobbles to the front door.

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