The Housewife

The glossy sheen of vegetable oil coated her hands, and she wiped a stray droplet from her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. The soft, quiet woman began to hear the musical humming that was sounding from the stove. She swayed, moving her hips, tapping her toes, floating across the walnut floor that was her private ballroom. Her silken gown was the color of dew drops resting on a dahlia blossom, and the romantic glow of the candlelight made her skin appear to glisten. The music ravished her with every sweet and mournful note. Romance itself took her urgently by the hand and kissed her cheek. She was entranced. The lights began to flicker and then brighten, the smell of lavender sadly departed, and the lovely tune that caught her ear only a moment ago became a shrill "beep...beep...beep" as she lowered the oven door and brushed a weary lock of hair from her tired brow. Dinner is served.