Tuesday Evening Visit

It wasn't until yesterday that she recognized the owl flying overhead. They both knew it was there, but months later, it was a harpie who had not yet found a place to nest. She just thought she'd swing by on a whim. They say ghosts don't know what to do with themselves when locked in closets, so they pound and pound for days on end. Until someone chooses to hear them. He still pounds. She rang the buzzer throwing away all of her inhibitions. Screeching is heard just outside the door. The Mediterranean rolls without break or violence. It is easy to do when there are no longer any expectations. A moth moves violently in the darkness of the hall, spinning in erratic cirles in some arabesque, just moving. She tries to catch it. In the lack-light he listens to her question. His eyes follow her face, down to her watch, gold on the left wrist highlighted in the musk-hall, arms brown with hay-rides and chariot-racing. She wonders if he notices that she always dresses with him in mind. A few questions later and his tone of voice betrays his fears of future engagements. Agamemnon could not have lost more to Iphagenia. She steps away from the pire, puts on her mask, and greets the owl.