Domestic bliss

The long and short of the long sentence: She was determined to be more than a simple housewife. Then she thought about that thought and how it in itself was a blatant piece of stiff prejudice and was simply untrue. Nobody is simple, we are not simple creatures on any level and nobody understands the term housewife anyway. If it was to be a description, a career and compliment, or an insult towards some station in life that transcends all of them. Then she thought about the earring that had just fallen into the kitchen sink drain, how annoying was that? She though of how it looked, how it was a part of a now ruined pair, of the details, shapes and shiny faces, the fine wire work and how it had sparkled, the outfits it had gone with. Now it was somewhere down in the murky darkness of the drain, beyond her reach and now the only possible means of rescue was via the dumb spanners of some plumber or DIY expert. She blamed herself (just a little) for not pressing the back on tightly enough, it must have pinged as she leaned over. It could have been a manufacturing fault, poorly made of inferior material in the far east and in the great timings of all the small things it had failed at that critical moment when she'd been at the kitchen sink. The place where many greasy, culinary and domestic, clean events had taken place.

Then she smirked into herself and thought about the occasional sensual or sexual moment that had taken place there, across the sink, bending at the waist, glazed eyes, vulnerable, touched. After parties it had sometimes happened, a byproduct of drink and relief, a parting celebration at the dog end of a difficult social situation, a way to channel up and end the stress. His and her's in some unequal measure. These thoughts wouldn't return the earring or do the other chores, they were empty musings that passed across this kitchen sky like a flock of birds above the barrels of the hunter's guns. Those guns were always ready, pointed. Everything that flies by gets shot down sooner or later, all winged things find the hard earth as it argues with gravity for attention and supremacy. And so it was that the earring had fallen on it's golden descent and was somewhere, amongst the lost things.

She thought of the great pile of lost things that everyone imagines; teddies and toys, coins and keys, jewellery and precious stones, phone numbers, tickets and messages. The physical mixture of those things we cared about, too much to begin with and then not enough later, we were lazy and careless or taken advantage of by a surprise hole, a gash, a stretched pocket in a purse or the failure of some component part in the grand chain. We witness this small universe as it collapses, time and time again and washes it all up as foreign flotsam and jetsam on a strangers beach. She twisted the tap too hard, a stream of warm water rushed around the steel sink, swishing right then left in a desperate torrent always drawn to the drain. The crest of the wave hit the drain and a tiny hydro explosion occurred, froth and foam, bubbles and an earring, pushed up and quick as a flash back into the palm of her hand. Tight shut on the shining prisoner. More than a simple squeal was needed, she allowed herself a chocolate smile.