You watch her fill the kettle, tired and forlorn, and you can picture her as a child, dressed in peach-coloured silk, feigning attention for anybody offering two dollars, or, even better, a peppermint. She dances on her star feet, decadant and unreal.
Now, in the real world, she attempts to mollify her little daughter, history repeating itself. Hot chocolate spills from chipped coffee mugs, and she wipes it up with a paper napkin. Her smile is one thing that hasn’t changed.
Behind her, ivy grows in through the kitchen window.[for a prompt on same_oh]