Dancing Vapors Advance

A silhouette, stark against the glow of a fireplace. Surrounded by silence. The cabin. Un-kept. Sparse belongings, owning their space, exhibit the characteristics that come with aging in place.

Vapors, dancing from his mouth with each breathe. Blanketed shoulders, slippered feet on the ottoman, and a distant stare land just beyond where dancing vapors end.

Next to him, an end table arranged snug against the armchair. One lamp. Two coasters. One fountain pen on top of a little black book with a ribbon pulled through. All situated along an atmospheric front where radiating warmth meets a stagnant chill.

A minute hand moves slowly. Flickers from flames, the tick clock hands emit with each leap and dancing vapors serving as accompaniments to desolation.

A rolling creak, pensive in pace, emerges in the distance as a door closes. Cabinets open only to close. Hands meet a counter, a buttress formed. The crackle of a gas stove giving way to the faint sound of heat warming a kettle. Utterances from a circling neck contribute to a muted rhythmic melodiousness.

An audible gasp and new source of vapors, stronger, denser thicker weigh heavily in the air, as if frozen. Shoulders fall as vertebrae stack and eyes lift as the mugs takeoff from the counter.

The pensive creak reemerges after steam exiting a heated kettle and swooshing water pouring into two mugs contribute to the improvisational jazz session. Their contents sway with each step, ripples echo to signal an approach going unheard. Flying embers are the only source of sound as a rug muzzles each stoic step.

Two ceramic mugs land, far edges first on the end table. As the silhouette moves ever so gingerly forward in the armchair a second body eases, gently and awkwardly behind. A tender embrace around the midsection and an adjustment of hair behind the ear later the silhouette leans back. The vapors once solo, now strengthened.

A left hand slides down the left thigh coming to a stop at the midpoint; the silhouette places its hand on top of the other. A right hand grabs the pen, adjusts the little black book, and pulls on a ribbon that opens to a dotted page half filled with words.

One deep breath, a fluttering of the eyes and the silhouette begins to tap in rhythmic bursts on the other’s hand. Moments later, the pen begins to move across the page. The steady undertone of pen on paper, occasional scratches from the angled nib, the crinkle of pages marking both the passing of time, and the capturing of it.

The symphonic sounds of two operating as one continue, with fits and starts until the last two words – The End – seal the sessions. A high-pitched pull of the ribbon later the book closes. The pen put to rest next to four other fountain pens. The little black book, stacked on top of nine others, home to ten thousand words and twice that in a cash advance is stacked neatly on the end of the table.

A silent voice has spoken. Sharing words for an eternity it will never see.

The left hand put back in a lap, a thigh now bare. A body in retreat.

Logs on the fire, mugs in the sink and a body creeping at a pace beyond pensive. The sound of escape, laced with sadness trails without detection.

The silhouette remains. Still. Warmed only by the fire before it. The dark front creeps ever closer towards the light. Vapors dance to meet the object of a distance gaze. On the mantle.