Verbal Photographs 1

Black boots, shuffling across a clean tiled floor. They swish and slide across the speckled beige sea. Those boots can’t be that heavy, jeans stuffed carelessly into them the narrow feet inside them are probably sockless and sweaty. The shaft of the boot leans off of its sole. Obviously walked in, the suede is supple.

A red bottle cap peaks out of the top of a faux Chanel bag shaped like a bucket. The bag’s tarnished chain link straps and buckles make it seem sad, neglected. The mysterious red cap bobs up against a sharp elbow and his quickly stuffed back into secrecy. She hugs the bag to her and enters a crowd, the overly round curve of a “C” leads.

The worn tip of her red stiletto restlessly on the worn lifelessly blue carpet. Manic tap, tap, tap tap tap tap tap, tap….tap. The patent leather is nearly extinct at the tip as if its owner lives in a place where climbing stone walls is mandatory. She crosses her leg and suddenly a callused heal slips out of the shoe. The show wobbles, balancing on the ball of her nervous foot.

Grass peeps through a dingy patch of snow. Limp blades peer into the overcast sky; they seem to be searching for the sun. Uncovered, wet, and vulnerable. Each blade is dark and stringy. The soil around them is pitiful and slimy, ridden with salty winter mud.

Bright blue jeans hug thick calves, wrinkling near crisp white high top Nike’s. Each wrinkle is like the corners of a grandmother’s eyes when she smiles. The thread in the seams near the calf is struggling to old itself together; one false move away from ripping all the way up her leg.

The black velvet designs on my crimson comforter are dusty.They are supposed to be a deep, rich looking black. Instead they are speckled with grey dust, tiny white hairs and hot pink lint from my bath towels. I thought lint traps in the dryer were supposed to take care of that. Each velvet flower seems to look back at me. Each tiny strand in the floral design seems to hold on to something next to it.

Rich cream swims in my morning coffee. A heavenly brown, deep like my mother’s eyes. The cream swirls into itself creating a kaleidoscope. Hints of winter white dissolve into sunny beige, creating caramel tan.

Stiff leather jacket with pastel stitching. I can’t tell if the jacket is holding her up or vice versa. She perches on the edge of her chair leaning into a bright computer screen. The jacket creases and squeaks, struggling to keep it’s shape. The zipper is even stiff, she fiddles with it with one hand first, and then the other. She sits up straight and looks down at the stubborn zipper, she pulls forcefully. She gives up.

A tattered leather band wraps itself tightly around an alabaster wrist. The leather is a dull; I’m almost sure it used to be a glossy black. I imagine when the watch was brand new; it was probably stiff and uncomfortable to wear. He pulls the watch off and sits it on the desk in front of him, glancing at the brass rim around the face. He lays the watch on the table face down; he must not want the time to watch him.

The sun peaks through naked branches. Scattering dry yellow light over haggard asphalt. Each branch is bare and jagged. Strong willed leaves hang on to tiny twigs, both flap helplessly into the wind during each gust. Shadows of the unarmed tree sweep the ground, leaning and swaying with an inclination to the wind.