Arlene Ang In the Company of One The cookies on the table are brittle with visions. There's a sleep pattern in the swirl of smoke rising from a cappuccino, its froth a cluster of black holes, hollow blocks that crumble while my mother stirs quietly with a fork. She forgets last year's newspaper on her lap. It is turned to the last page, the milk stains on the obituaries like regular Rorschach blots. In winter, the kitchen windows steam as water boils itself to white rings inside the pan. The level is not always the same. Overhead a fly buzzes. She says it's a storm brewing, the tulips in the garden will be shredded by rain, the petals arrowed to Madagascar, her hands caught in the weathervane the way my sneakers used to twirl on the clothesline. Afterwards I drink from her cold mug, listen to the sound of steps around the apartment, from bathroom to hallway, living room then back again. A vacancy sign lights her eyes. She is the woman in the other room, the door a ceramic jar with cracks around the roses, the lid jammed tight. |