Her shelves were littered with ugly little porcelain cats. Their glossy eyes leer at me with dusty imperiousness through the stale air, which churns slow and thick to the feeble efforts of a limping ceiling fan. Its warped and peeling blades whine softly, and I swear it makes it seem like one of the lacquered cats is mewling at me. I swim through the air to the couch and leaf through some of the faded magazines that lay heaped like autumn leaves in a basket under the coffee table. Their pages are curled outwards, sticky with humidity, and each time I flip one over to scan the dour, sepia faces of a bygone era, a draft of well seasoned air – the kind that can only develop in-between pages of text over very long periods of time – leaves me feeling a bit heady.
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