hillwalker
03-29-2011, 08:40 AM
MICROCLIMATE
The room was ostensibly the same as when Helen had left it. Humidity 40%, air pressure close to 1270 millibars, temperature 18 degrees Centigrade.
I sniffed the atmosphere for any lingering signs. One occupant consumes less oxygen, and exhales less carbon dioxide and nitrogen, than two. I perceived no change. Yet somehow I could sense the space created by her impromptu departure had not been quick to fill with molecules of available air.
Our furniture remained in situ. The faded brown sofa bed retained the gentle imprint of her thighs and buttocks angled towards the plasma TV. The coffee table, strewn with colourful coasters, an empty coffee mug, a menu from the local Vietnamese restaurant and a prescription for contact lenses. It also withheld a hand-written letter in a familiar scroll.
I studied the map of the mint green carpet. A single footprint suggested the position she had selected for sitting; one bare foot planted on the floor, one leg crossed over the other. But no prints led left or right. No tracks to signify her mode of exit; door or third-floor window.
There is only a narrow patch of sky visible from this apartment. Slotted between the twin blocks of the Curzon Hotel. If I slide behind the corner sofa and press my face against the pane I can see it. Five oktas of cloud; cumulo-nimbus, tinged pink this close to November sunset.
A blonde spider-web spans sill to sofa. My breath condenses on the cold glass. I pause for a second before wiping. Pause in case I might inadvertently erase her lingering reflection. Then smearing a finger I expose the swatch of sky, turning bloodier by the minute. Trenton Street seems such a long way down.
I don’t hear the door open as a gust of her memory enters.
She manoeuvres each foot from its expensive shoe and pads across the floor. She looks as if she has lost weight; quite plausible given the circumstances. Not much else has changed. A cushion to plump up. An empty coffee mug to transfer to the kitchen. The air swirls in a drowsy anticyclone as she passes from room to room wafting my words to the floor. Crumbs on the carpet are plucked and discarded. A stray blonde hair on the back of the sofa is noted and her face tries on a frown for size but it will not fit.
She pushes the corner sofa a few centimetres closer to the radiator. The dusty heel-print from my brogue is wiped from the sill with the tips of her fingers. It barely registers on her radar.
H
The room was ostensibly the same as when Helen had left it. Humidity 40%, air pressure close to 1270 millibars, temperature 18 degrees Centigrade.
I sniffed the atmosphere for any lingering signs. One occupant consumes less oxygen, and exhales less carbon dioxide and nitrogen, than two. I perceived no change. Yet somehow I could sense the space created by her impromptu departure had not been quick to fill with molecules of available air.
Our furniture remained in situ. The faded brown sofa bed retained the gentle imprint of her thighs and buttocks angled towards the plasma TV. The coffee table, strewn with colourful coasters, an empty coffee mug, a menu from the local Vietnamese restaurant and a prescription for contact lenses. It also withheld a hand-written letter in a familiar scroll.
I studied the map of the mint green carpet. A single footprint suggested the position she had selected for sitting; one bare foot planted on the floor, one leg crossed over the other. But no prints led left or right. No tracks to signify her mode of exit; door or third-floor window.
There is only a narrow patch of sky visible from this apartment. Slotted between the twin blocks of the Curzon Hotel. If I slide behind the corner sofa and press my face against the pane I can see it. Five oktas of cloud; cumulo-nimbus, tinged pink this close to November sunset.
A blonde spider-web spans sill to sofa. My breath condenses on the cold glass. I pause for a second before wiping. Pause in case I might inadvertently erase her lingering reflection. Then smearing a finger I expose the swatch of sky, turning bloodier by the minute. Trenton Street seems such a long way down.
I don’t hear the door open as a gust of her memory enters.
She manoeuvres each foot from its expensive shoe and pads across the floor. She looks as if she has lost weight; quite plausible given the circumstances. Not much else has changed. A cushion to plump up. An empty coffee mug to transfer to the kitchen. The air swirls in a drowsy anticyclone as she passes from room to room wafting my words to the floor. Crumbs on the carpet are plucked and discarded. A stray blonde hair on the back of the sofa is noted and her face tries on a frown for size but it will not fit.
She pushes the corner sofa a few centimetres closer to the radiator. The dusty heel-print from my brogue is wiped from the sill with the tips of her fingers. It barely registers on her radar.
H