Sundown

Laura is on her way back right now; she’s in her cab, a junked yellow mantrap clanking through an empty stretch on a muggy night.
This is Laura; this isn’t only her story, but we began with her because every story needs a moment, not opportune, not telling, but just a fraction, that balances the pull of the life or lives, we are looking at tonight.
We can go back in time, flash-back to the day’s morning, when she wakes up in her large and comfy double bed, surrounded by pillows, white and inviting, sheets half turned and an ashtray in the middle. Laura wears her favorite vest, a pink strappy thing, that playfully works on her small breasts and knickers that display her long, thin legs – a dryad maybe, or an androgynous page-boy, tossing in a mattress, with rich black hair spilling over – Laura is beautiful like this.
She hates the blankness of the light that invades her room through the window; its then that she calls out to Paul and pushes herself up to ask him something.  "That is the strangest thing I've ever seen"
That’s what Laura is thinking of, on her way back, in the cab; that morning; different was it? Or the same, merely a dot in the turning wheel that’s her life, moving back and forth, on and off, over and again, through a nice, blamelessly benign path that she’s chosen.
And Laura’s home; so is Paul.
He darts a couple of random instructions; it seems they have a party to reach, and like always it would do good to imagine they can get there early – move in quick, talk, mingle, drink, dance (maybe) eat or more likely, nibble, and move out – it is an office week.
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