The air con wheezes in the corner. The ceramic pineapple quivers on the shelf. The morning is dribbling down the sides of the divan, over the shag rug, and nestling in the cracks between the floorboards. My sister has spread herself out across the daybed, draped in an old velvet bathrobe, and is staring down at the hair on her ankles. “I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs,” she mutters.

    The vaulted ceiling yawns. The windows tremble; the lace curtains flick slitted figures across the walls. I adjust my sailor’s stance. Outside the window, the pavement unzips itself from the earth and peels down the hillside. My third grade math teacher once told me parallel lines never meet. When I questioned him further, he admitted that they do, in fact, meet: at infinity. I wonder if that’s where death is, infinity; for how could we possibly be alive? The double yellow lines are crossing, twisting, and doubling back each other. The ceramic pineapple has shuddered into dust. My sister’s bathrobe has committed itself to strangulation, and soon we will join the sunlight spelunking between the floorboards. The air con has succumbed to its asthma, and I no longer know where the morning has gone.