Shutter Speed

"Is it windy outside," she asks.

"No," he says. "It's thirteen degrees."

As the words come out of his mouth she can hear the shutters slapping against the side of the building, the French double windows groan from the fullness of eating up the wind, straining at their seams like a zipper.They're going even faster now. Clicking ferociously and as steadily as film being fed through a movie projector while showing an old home movie.

Inside she is barefoot, wearing a man's silk shirt, all her toes are warm except the biggest one. Her favourite pair of socks are in the washing machine victim to centrifical force while she sits on the sofa staring at the pictures bought from flea markets and framed posters stolen from the New York City subway.

Her ears pick up every sound and she is eavesdropping on the couple fighting in the courtyard without meaning to.

"How could you," the woman says. "How could you do it?"

The man mumbles a response she cannot hear, but she does her the exasperated sigh.

"I guess it's alright," she says.

Then they feet make marching noises as they walk together and out.

She wonders what was alright. What this woman had so quickly resigned herself to. It could have been as simple as not making the bed or as complicated as leaving the electricity on. She will never know.

She focuses on the washing machine sounds as new voices rise up. Maybe it isn't windy. Maybe it's the angry voices, the excited voices, the loud voices just talking about taking out the garbage the night before or whether the dog has had its shots. Maybe that's what making the shutters beat like humming bird wings against the facade.

Her feet are entirely cold now. The socks have surived the spin cycle. Now they are nearly dehydrated and ready to be laid out side by side like two woolen dolls on the bathroom counter to evaporate into dryness beside the sink like a couple lounging poolside.