Today’s Word: Loquat
The smell of loquat blooms filled the room, but could not cover the stench of sickness and sloth.
The door swung open and in walked Eloise Demmorskel.
“Betty, I know you’re ill darling, but I’m afraid I have news and it can’t wait.”
What news of the world mattered? The world was a bustling, pulsating thing; something outside these four quiet walls, something separate, something imagined. Betty turned onto her side.
“Tell the maid, I’ll ask her when I’m feeling better.”
“Betty, honey, Randolph, your Randolph, is dead.”
Betty rolled back to face Eloise.
“Plane crash. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, the poor dear.”
A pleasant sigh of fragrance seemed to burst into the room’s still air, permeating the bed, the dresser, the window.
Betty rose and donned her bathrobe, cinching it tight about her middle.
“No need to get out of bed, hon. There’s nothing you can do. You should take your rest.”
“I’ve rested enough,” said Betty. “Now it’s time to live.”