Claffolifactory or TroBriand #8: Peach Walls
The room is dark except for the small lamp he sits under
down on the street it's night and she's crossing the road
dull light on the peach walls, smoke drifts from a cigarette
red shoes click on the pavement, above notes drift down from a radio
He takes a slow drag on the cigarette and turns down the radio
she's at the apartment door, it swings open with familiar ease
he knew she'd come back
she knew he'd be there
His ears strain to hear the faint click of the door
soft hands graze the banister of the stairs
a rough hand grips the arm of the chair in anticipation
she looks at the old gray door like it was a mirror
She enters the room without knocking
music and smoke drift out into the hallway
eyes meet across the dark
and smiles form on the two faces.
Oh, and props to Josaleigh for the series title.
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