John sets an overfull Hammermill paper box on the worn rug of the upstairs room he and Katie decided would be their attic. The several LPs on top sluice to the side and spill, ramp-like, under Katie’s grandmother’s rocking chair.
“Ah, shit.” John spots Cream’s Wheels of Fire album in the spread and wonders where the turntable got unloaded. “Katie! Do you know where the record player is?” he absently aims his yelling out the door and down the stairs. Ahead of him he hears a noise he doesn’t recognize as a sob.
“Ah, shit. What the hell Katie?”
John’s wife perches on a stout earthernware vase which sits on a lace doily which is draped over an antique coffee table—also her Grandmother’s. She’s cast aside her slip-on tennis shoes and is wearing someone else’s white high heel shoes. The flat front soles she balanced across most of the vase’s rim. She managed to get the pegs perfectly on the other side of the rim. She’s squatting with her hands behind her back and her long comfortably brown hair drapes her face. He is impressed, confounded, and curious simultaneously. He’s too afraid to go nearer.
“I can’t get down,” Katie sobs.
John’s arms surround his wife; he doesn’t recall closing the distance between them to get to her. He lifts her into his arms. Katie scuffs off the high heels and plants her feet firmly on the ground but continues to cling to him. There’s nothing to say so he keeps quiet.
“I just…it made sense…at the time.”
Got no more time today for this one. I’ll try to come back some day soon.