Perhaps she is a coward for hiding within this inner sanctum, for closing herself off, for doing too much or too little. Without husband, without children – she drinks in the moment. Only Ginsberg can capture her cruel beauty in a portrait.
Poetry speaks to Blair. She reaches for it in the midst of this harsh realm. When she can’t quite reach the safe space that is her greenhouse, she turns to the music of fiction. There’s a comfort in being alone, in letting her meticulous mind wander. Hair down, free of the right ponytail she defaults to, she attempts to relax, only to lose herself further to the furniture of her favorite store. Yet, the pull of her shoulders keeps her spine upright. Against the flickering sconce, she strains her eyes. Squints and narrows steel blue in one light and blue-green in another. One page slithers and leaps to the next.
"Excuse me," A voice seeps through her bubble, breaking her concentration and she looks up, "Do you think you can reach that me for?"