The effortless pleasure of the dreary Sunday; counting the needles to take to work tomorrow and peeling the skin from my fingers. I sit in the back of the car and superglue earrings back together, the shabby workmanship of the internet occupying my time, weekly. The windows of the car are wide open, and the chill of the wind lingers on my skin.
We take the long way home, always. We enjoy the tension of the turns in the road, and the music we play: track after track of bleak magic. These are the things we enjoy in the light. And in the dark, there is the Green House.
The Green House sits atop a hill in the near distance, the dark night seemingly growing ever darker, silhouetted against the jade milieu. I turn my head for the moments in between the trees when the hilltop will unlock and the Green House emerges luminous against the sky. Suffused in sinister emeralds and engorged with grandeur, oftentimes I have wondered if it exists at all. The daylight attests the Green House invisible. My mind convulses with thoughts of what could ever lie inside, or its unfathomable colours in the sunlight- much too bright to comprehend- as we speed past in the car, running out of all the time in the world. But in the dead of the night there stands the Green House, manor, cradle- of imagination and mystery: a solitary figure against the dark, dark sky. A beacon of green anticipation in a sea of black hills, and red and yellow car lights.
My heart swells and dies in the brief moments in between the trees. I turn my head to the earrings in my lap once more, the light now too dim to continue with my menial task. We drive home to superglue further. Sometimes I snap them on purpose.