The muffled sounds lingered, like the stains on the dark yellow living room curtains. They had never got around to the full renovation. She watched, fixated, at the blackened glow rising from the baby pink ashtray. What a concept, she thought- a baby pink ashtray. The ashtray sits unassumingly next to the yellowing porcelain female figurines. Though painfully lifeless, god were they exotic. Those full red skirts and painted black hair buns purchased proudly during the First Church of God pilgrimage to Spain in '59. The muffled sounds swelled. In deft silence, another cigarette snuffed itself onto the cake -like bottom of the baby pink ashtray.


From somewhere distant, a yelling began. She suppressed a chuckle, remarking to herself how much he sounds like her father when the poor man was dying. Dementia ridden, she pursed her lips recalling her father's constant dissatisfaction with those around him, working to help him in those final weeks. She wondered if thinking about his passed soul like this counted as a prayer to Lord.

A long drag on the Virginia Slim was followed by a silent, paralytic exhale- her chest like a kettle, releasing steam, smoke, unmoving. Wouldn't it be nice to be a kettle. Still, she was aware that her painted, delicate face remained motionless, unblinking. She thanked her Lord, an intentional prayer this time, for the throbbing in her ears which drowned out the screaming red, fleshy face of her husband standing in front of her. In that slight second, the recognition of his presence, she became heavily aware of his stare at her taught, Avon pink smile and her mocking, lifted breasts.