She checks the clock above the oven and has exactly four minutes to spare before she must flag a taxi outside. There is a napkin and a blue pen on the countertop so she begins to scribble the way other people doodle.
Four minutes left. Four minutes on the clock, Peter. Four four four fourfourfourfourrteen months to the day next Friday. My, how time flies. It flies just like your shadow, Peter. Well that’s silly. It doesn’t fly, stupid girl, Tink chimes. It WOULD, but you’ve sewn it to his feet. You ass. And she’s chimed it so often that you understand it wearily, without Peter’s explanation. And then because Peter’s not looking, you pinch her by the wings and shut her in the lantern-shaped candle holder. She protests shrilly, you stupid ASS, and in a fit of pixie temper sets the candle on fire.
She leaves to hail a cab.
I need to find a way to consolidate all past blog posts