A basement.
The syncopated rhythm of shoes on concrete steps is
audible, but unheard by the woman, who is humming. She
jauntily slips the noose over her head. She tugs a
little on the rope above her, peers up at the pipe it
is tied to.
At this moment, a young man enters the room. His
shoes, buttered with shoeshine, glint dustily from the
bare light-bulb on the ceiling. He blinks. The woman
is somewhat embarrassed. She stares at him, and he
stares at her.
“Hello, mother.” A pause.
“Hello,” the woman says.
“What are you doing?” The son is answered with the
shifting eyes of the woman. Then,
“Baking a cake,” says the woman. This is met with a
particularly empty silence.
“Oh,” he says. “Do you need any help?” The young man
swallows, looks around.
“No,” she answers after a brief silence. “Thank you,
though.”
“All right,” says her son.
They stare.
The sound of a kettle’s whistle enters the basement.
“I think that I hear my tea kettle,” says the woman,
and looks at the young man. He nods, and she moves
past him, up the stairs. He listens to the syncopated
clacking of stair climbing. He stands there, at the
base of the stair, and listens to the sharp
commingling of dishes. He clears his throat.
She descends the stairs, the woman, again with the
familiar syncopation.
She sees her son and blinks abruptly.
“Oh,” she says, “You’re still here.”
“Yes,” he replies, “I am.” He furrows his brow at
this.
The woman coughs, asks if he would like some toast.
She holds out a plain
round dish to him, with several slices of vaguely
burnt bread atop it.
“Yes,” he says to her. “Thank you.”
He takes one, puts the corner of it in his mouth,
closes his jaw upon it. There is the conspicuous
initial crunch of toast between teeth. There is
uncertain chewing.
The young man and the woman sit in green gingham
folding chairs on the floor of the basement. They
quietly chew their toast. The woman delicately sips
her tea. The noose swings.
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