Restless, a novella

An ebony piano in the corner, all eighty-eight of its fangs and white buckteeth bared. The other furniture in the room shrouded. Justine, a narrow, hunched woman in black wool trousers, a long sleeved black shirt and a blue shawl sat down on the narrow wooden piano bench, soaked to the skin, chain smoking. A hovering, flat wraith of smoke divided the large room in half. The piano a dead shark. Her hands useless sardine cans. She'd always treated herself for any little problem. Home remedies. She'd awaken to an electric numbness spanning left clavicle to hip, a frenzy in her sternum. Symptoms too dense for anything in her kitchen. She forgot things, hid the confusion of not exactly knowing where she was. Justine reaches for Martin's hand. He was dark-haired, petite, her only son. 'Time for us to go Martin.' The two make their way to the door. Justine's left hand trembles and her head swathed in blue silk wags subtly, a continuous and involuntary No. Martin pulls the heavy door open. The mother and son make their way slowly down the stairs, Martin supporting his mother with both of his small hands, one on her shoulder, one on hip. Justine twists from one step to another, pausing to get her bearings. A car drives by slowly, windshield wipers on, wending its way carefully. Its lights cut through the trees, briefly lacerating the boy and his mother with its bright glare.»

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