moving...

Step inside the door as though half expecting someone to be there already, not just here but waiting and ready to discipline. A dog fresh from dreams, easing off a sofa, trailing evidence to mark the hope of misbehavior.

Carafe on the counter, still half full of water. The kind not drunk from directly, a receptacle. Suited to a student's lift- one hand to grip and one to raise.

Alternative- eye shape & fluid level. With tired eyes consider strength for a grip on each slope in the curvy smooth glass. Fibers lace the tangents, optic threads of pre-meditated movement, pinks against the easy blue glass. Brightening at a mean intersection met by one finger.... A hand pauses, tests torque-ability (the experimental possibilities) before lifting.

While leaning against the wall between windows, resting. Windows wide beyond each shoulder, grey clouds close but a margin of sun between here and that. One hand spots the bottom up without touching, slow to avoid the slosh of fluid splashing down and over the face as she attempts to drink directly anyway. From the side, such slow moving is ridiculous.

Pause with the first gulp and eye the round bellied, thin stemmed glass on the table. Paired- carafe and glass; not a set and only one? Inside- a key. Is it a Lewis Carroll poem, fingers for keys but no identifiable door?

Jar on one hip, don't put that down. Second hand into the mouth for the key, fingers kicking around the bowl. Door opens. A black case thumps into the entrance way first.

DF. Pausing without moving.
Re-assigned, he says, then tosses a second bag down on the floor beside the first. Step, beat, word, drop, beat. For me. That's a good thing, as though almost amused by her but as his look holds longer he continues.

Lift the carafe onto the table now (tap) but neglect to relax grip on the key. Shoulders shift back, chin slowly raises- two fists knot into the small of the back. The glass taps the wall, a hollow sound. It disconnects and drops to the floor upright- just this now empty pedestal, a leg and sharp meniscal edge. He looks at it, but she keeps skeptical eyes on him (the controlled wince of recent days).

Will you be alright alone here for a while? Not mentioning the changes in the room, ducking under a stretched cord. Stepping into his own room and closing the door behind him with the world Careful.

Swing and tip the key into a palm before placing the broken thing on the table (hand blown, local art as though reading a tag) with the opposite hand, firm like setting down a done shot. Beside that: line up the key, busted stem, a small notebook from a side pocket. Intended shells in a casual row.

Tire's noise outside. Shoulders ease tighter between the panes of the window, body pressing the solid wall. Instead, with those raised shoulder blades pull away from the wall. First steps somewhat lumbering into the room but staying straight backed.

"Aye?" Wide eye the room, apparently perplexed by the furniture and the shadows behind it. The latches on the windows.
"Did you say something?" he opens the door a hand's breadth and leans backward to look out. Nothing happens.
"You'll be ok, right?" His face looks warm for a second as he closes it again, and the light in the room flares a little.
He pauses, tucking a hand on his hip and a knee flexing thoughtfully. Look at her, he's about to say something. Can she handle this, and how is she going to handle this, and what is her next step.... Then closes the door as a phone rings.

With the click, see a moment of white cabinets splattered with red and green liquid dripping down.