UntitledRoadWay

Porcelain She is as she always was: ceramic. Sitting high on her shelf in her lacy dress, pretty and fine and (hiding the deep fractures in her body from when she fell and broke in two and) blue, she smiles down to catch the glance of they that dwell below the shelf (where she sits by herself), and they sometimes smile up, remarking on her (from a distance) perfectly painted face, which is (fading and yellowed and) so beautiful. Sometimes they speak of art, of music, of (things which are not like her or) philosophy, glancing up to her, occasionally, and then resume their daily discourse which is (not like her) mundane as l

He read the paper, half-watching her at the sink. She stood, slightly turned to the right, her hand fumbling for the drain-plug.  The metal rod at the end scraped against the brass drain until she finally aimed it correctly and sealed the hole.  Steam rose from the hot water filling the sink as she poured in the dish soap.  Reaching to the side, she picked up her half-empty glass, drank, and washed it.  She placed the glass in the dish drainer and watched the water evaporate quickly in the cool air.  Then she returned it to the cabinet above the toaster and blender. Over the top of the paper, he stared at the bubbles flowing over the edge o