Circles

Tinkering fingers plucked restlessly. Hair, elbow creases, the edge of a smile. Teeth flashed like porcelain. The low rustle of skirts whispered something polite to honeyed floorboards. “Now…did you hear…and really she…” Tiny dribbling waves of gossip edged to and fro, matching themselves with the dainty creaking of slippered feet. The slight popping of bones, as they looked behind themselves into mirrors, met with the clatter of more teeth, as they gnashed them and smiled, reapplied lipstick. A tiny pink pause as red carefully rimmed edges, then tittering again, fidgeting, fluttering, tinkering. xxx Petals of skin like the inner crisp of radishes, crystal and wet, hard glitter. A tiny thought, a sweet idea, perches at cider lips they whisper wordless and run-on long without breath. Eyes flicker, clover green, like a leaf in the wind, trained on a small scatter-cluster of helpless leaves, also in the wind, different because she holds only their reflection. Which is safe, she knows, she is safe behind glass panes and the glass of her body. Silence throbs in her eyes. She feels tiny particles of wind batter their fingertips at the white trim lining her face. Out there, she sees, are colours. In here, they are creeping tiny reflected things too heavy to hold by herself. They are not allowed past the glass. They must not touch her brittle crackling skin, which pulses with milky reflected emotion, fractures like veins spider-webbing, edging, forward. Holding her breath, she shushes the mild electricity which warms her as an outside thing dips across her window pane, shuffling and shimmering flower-words at her, upsetting her flesh. //Quiet, quiet, shh…//she whispers. Like leaves torn by wind, she will shatter into a thousand glassy petals. xxx Smoothed lips thickened into a silent grin. “I bet you can’t.” And the reaction, it echoed through his skin, tiny ripples like the ones twitching at the corner of her waxy face. He pinched the creases in his elbows. He felt tiny inches between his teeth, holding himself stable, imperfect yet smoothed. xxx

Shiver, a moment, then two, smiles pricking like icicles at the back of his neck. Paranoia played scales on his spine, he was sure his ears picked out crystal screams in whispers. Shame burned into his cheeks like wind etching snow-banks. It was cold, and he couldn’t control a shiver. xxx