The old woman, from within the creases of her lower ribs -the floating ones- brings out a bead.
She places it in a ceramic bowl, cushioning it with her palms on both sides. It is familiar, like wiping a tear off a cheek.
It makes a sound as it goes around in spheres, circling itself in its little haven. Clink.
The bowl is placed on a table. It is awake, no longer cushioned. It protects the circle within it.
The bowl tips over, and the bead rolls out. It goes forward, still in circles, this time in a straight line.
Eventually, it falls off the table, into a conversation. The floor is sticky, it almost stops for a moment.
It's hard to hear. Maybe because there's no one there? No, there are people. Two of them, there, on the sofa. They're sitting quite far apart. Maybe that's why they're not speaking. They would have to shout.
One of them sees the bead glint in the corner. Neither of them reach for it. It rolls closer, and they begin to talk.
She savors his words; there is venom, there is nectar. But she only listens, for now. She listens to the cruciality of the words he uses. It's hard to understand them perfectly. There's something in between.
Now and then there are little fans circling in the corners of the whites of their eyes. Do they notice them? It's hard to tell.
But there are flowers.
She places some on her skin; they are pink. As pink as bubble gum.
Then she prays.
She places pink flowers on her skin, and begs for them to fold into her; so that she may become a forest.
He puts some on his arm as well.
They melt, and it is pink. They are pink, like bubble gum.
There's a film playing somewhere behind the bead. It is black-and-white.
There are people, in a diner, next to the cinema theater. There are hats, and headbands, and lights clinging to dancing, drunk faces as…Hendrix? plays in the background. Purple Haze, perhaps.
Probably a murder mystery.
I look to the puddle, then to the bead. There are still some flowers on the floor. As pink as bubble gum. I pick some with the tips of my fingers, and place them behind my right ear. They sit comfortably. Then I stare at the glare from the screen. There is no audio.
The radio plays instead, by habit. Purple Haze whispering from the speakers.