Sharon

"Yes," she said
and stood there with her face set,
an even look in her eyes
that betrayed no emotion
beyond the flat tone of her voice.
Her feet apart, one knee bent,
settled on her hips, steady,
her body solid, fundent.
The clock ticked, once.
Many times.
Didn't tick.
The rose outside the window
Bloomed,
withered,
scattered soft yellow petals
on the brown earth.
Buds grew,
bloomed again,
over and over.
She never blinked.
Dust settled on the desk
beyond her shoulder,
unseen.
(A finger remarked it,
drawing a thin line,
but did not polish
or wipe it away.)
Electricity.
Perspective wooden floorboards.
A glass of red wine
almost drunk.
Curling smoke from a cigarette,
ash about to drop.
"Yes," she said
and walked past me
out of the room.

^

Biography

Niall currently lives and writes in Dublin.