There’s a box in my hand, and given the style of sweet contained it’s a bit small, one inch by three inches by six inches.
Their sweethearts, and they are a little big with flat One-inch dimensions.
I take one into my mouth and instead of the usual compacted sugar-ashes, its sour. I feel electricity down my back, but I do not wake up.
I look around the room. The space is broadly compact, the room is painted in eight shades of purple. The floor is carpeted, shaggily but in a strange print.
I get up from my spot on the floor, and I measure the distance, foot to ceiling.
Fourteen corners, three windows, one door.
I take my sweethearts and leave.
“Hello, Miss Rensburg? I’ve drawn your blueprints for review.” John said, he was the architect she’d been courting for her dream home. It was rather a miracle when she finally got him on commission.
Not on account of some strange artistic talent, but more-so his willingness to invent his way into the desired design of his clients.
His designs for her house so far have been stunning, his ability to translate what had held sway in her head since she was a child into a real place was commendable to say the least.
She hadn’t been sure before that is was all together possible or potentially legal, but he knew what he was doing.
“Thanks John,” she says, feeling the buzz that was creation however vicarious.
I walk through a baby green hallway onto the patio and out of the house, my Aunt is swimming in the pool outside healthy and strong. She’s wearing a black swimsuit covered in yellow leaves.
The pool is large and softly shaped, curved where less cautious designers would put edges, its tiles are multi-colored and in interesting designs.
I sit and put my feet in the water, some of the tiles are shaped like starfish, and others like orchids, some are shaped like eyes, but it’s all abstract.
My aunt calls out to me.
“Sweetheart! How have you been?”
“Great,” I say, neglecting my confusion. I offer a sweetheart, and she reads it.
“U R God.”, she reads, before eating it, “weird its usually the mint ones that say things like that.”
“Yeah, hey. Why aren’t you here anymore?”
“But honey, I am. Who do you think is in the tiles?” she asked.
“Oh.” I say, wondering which tiles she was used in. I see one beneath my perch that’s black and yellow, and I know where she is.
I start crying into the pool.
My aunt swims over to me, pulling my hand so I fall in with a splash, “Oh sweetheart, its nothing to cry over. I’ll be where I want to be. Don’t you know? The waters heaven in stone.”
“I think the house will be lovely dear, once it’s done.” She said, “The world would be made better for its construction.”
Sweet short lives make the difference every day for human beings, as well as creatures pestilent and domestic. Her’s was rather blessed, being a human of conspicuous wealth and socially acceptable curiosity.
Donna Rensburg had been a real-estate agent for a majority of her working life, that and the assistance of lawyers, marketers, and half-way competent stockbrokers has made her rather boring. And rich.
Boring. And Rich.
She could also make cupcakes, but that was hardly something to brag about when your leisure time was simply yours, rather than allotted by any other arbiter.
Miss Rensburg had been trying to change that first thing with the latter since she was a girl, it was the entire reason she’d gone and lived a boring life if she were honest.
Six Acres had been the first step.
John was the second.
I wake in my bedroom, the one I painted one night as a child. Its mint green and autumn orange, and the floors are black-walnut with blue and magenta rugs.
My bed is as round as when I first built it, a birds nest in the center of the room. Its Alaska king sized, and surrounded by bookcases, its everything I own.
Everything I want to own.
I curl self-close in my sheets, and I’m home.
I feel someone else in the room, though I remember no lovers in this world.
Donna walks into the hollow shell that will be her house soon, a place that she won’t part with in her lifetime. She breathes in what is at that moment only new wood and human ingenuity, too many rooms for any conventional design, she sees a shadow, and-
“What’re you doing Miss R? Not getting too nosy are we?” asked McDermott.
Alton McDermott was her head contractor, a rather burly man, he had a good pedigree in construction and was even recommended by John.
“No, I’m trying not to be.” She responds, feeling the room. It doesn't smell right yet, but it’ll be nothing to fix once the drywalls been added.
“Good, you wouldn’t be the first person to misevaluate what they’re buying. It’d really be a waste if we didn’t follow through at this point.” McDermott pointed out.
“Your right about that. But I can see even now, this is what I wanted.” She said honestly, she feels the space with her heart and her body and there’s nothing out of place.
“Whatever you say Mam.”
With this she’s as happy as can be expected. This will be her final home. The reason she’s bothered at all for all these years.
I’m in my kitchen looking through the cabinets, all black, for something to eat, they are only half-deep when I look inside, save the lazy Susan style spice rack. I know from how its affixed in the cabinet, that is a built-in feature rather than a personal modification to the space.
I look to another compartment, with better results. Finding an unopened jar of tomato jam, ginger-walnut crackers and sardines in olive oil.
Despite the fridge, and some other basic appliances, there is no traditional oven. A majority of the countertop is role-in style rather than built into or jutting from the walls, while the sink is bifurcated.
I set a plate for myself, and leave the space.
It is the common belief of human beings, that the earth is a canvas, and no matter what’s already there, its blank. Whatever was, whatever could’ve been, is erroneous to the person who owns the deed.
It was the why of water-rights and how the common person lost them, for quick-powder, power and lies.
It wasn’t an alien feeling for Donna, for this last march till her big dream.
As the fireplace was built where the living room would be.
As the south wall was made in stained glass.
As the floors in the east were cut from granite.
She tastes the sweethearts on her tongue, and they are no longer ashes. It isn’t finished, not by a long shot but she feels, happy.
And for all that, the shadows don’t matter.