A crooked house sat heavily in the cool morning.
At a glance there was nothing curious about this place. Somehow the tilt framed a fitting picture of its setting– it was as though its imperfection was an inherent quality, and any other form would be unnatural.
The structure stood despite its inhabitants, though it must credit them with a fair amount of its relative uprightness. Such a place reverts quickly without a caretaker; once its embalmers abandon a sarcophagus, the wilderness moves switly to bury its deceased . In this case, a previous attempt at such reclamation had been hacked back to its brooding stages several years before as fresh morticians instead staked claim to its shelter. So the house, in close proximity with its wary lineage, sat separated from it still.
Around its foundation was a messy crop of tall and unkempt grass deemed innocuous enough to file under grooming procrastination. The long and thin stalks brushed soothingly at the houses’ sides, timing their strokes with the wind in a genial sort of mediation. Occasionally, an intermittent breeze rolled lazily over their stretching peaks, scattering seeds into the ebbs and flows of the air above them and pressing the stalks even more intimately against the sides of the solemn centerpiece. These stalks extended for a ways beyond and then gave way to the considerably thicker trunks of their taller relatives. The trees -with aid from underlying vegetation- formed a thick wall around the whole outfit, rising from their splayed roots and cracked bodies to intermingle their arms gaily and hum to the tune of interdependent canopy dwellers. They gazed down at the house, perplexed at its many derivative qualities.
Presently, a wisp of smoke trailed thinly from the leaning chimney. Sensing the dawn, it extended itself boldly to the new day and thickened with anticipation. Pots and pans could be heard knocking about inside, and soon the sizzle of grease joined the air’s activity.
The source of the morning’s disruption moved deftly about her work, pausing only to stop and listen for soft footsteps on the stair that would precede her husband’s arrival. There was little need for her hearkening. Every morning, like clockwork, she rose and sent the wispy smoke high into the blue, and every morning, like a shadow, he rose only when the fragrance reached its climax and shuffled sleepily towards the stairs.
These two, the man and the woman, lived in a dance. The choreography was simple and nondescript, yet crafted carefully too. They had written it together; my lead, now yours, and here we twirl. You to my left, now watch my foot! Try not to be so clumsy. That’s the way, perfect now, and the dance was soon a habit. When they had met they were poor partners, and could not have agreed on the song. Now they moved as one, two sources of a single expression of existence that was comfortable.
The smoke high in the air, the footsteps thudded gently towards the sizzle. The woman looked up from her work, and glanced at the doorway — the scene was a picture framed above a mantel. He nodded as he entered; her mouth tightened in greeting.
“Mornin'”
She rinsed some water over the hot pan and brushed swiftly over it with a cloth before the grease had a chance to settle. He ate, gazing out at the cool morning peeking in from the small window over the sink. Biscuits and bacon this day, the same as the last.
“Fixin’ to try again?”
“Yes’m.”
“Well, alright. Whose this time?”
“The same.”
“Again?”
“Yes’m.”
And they danced in silence.
The heat started creeping in, perturbing the morn with its insistence. This day was set to blister, in excess even of its performance the day before; soon, the sun would feature itself importantly at the center of things and leave the earth to sweat in indignance.
For now, he sat and he ate, pondering the sunrise.