- Aperture: f/5
- Focal Length: 100mm
- ISO: 200
- Shutter: 1/2500 sec
- Camera: NIKON D1H
Furiously she scrubbed at the pots, shoving reddened, work-worn hands in and out of the steaming bucket.
Burnished copper. That was it.
That’s what he had called the tangle of curls pulled into a messy loop at the nape of her neck. They were not so bright now. Maybe they never were. He always did have a flair for the fanciful.
There was no place for such foolishness now. There were chores to be done, tasks to complete. Better for the days to slip wordlessly, one into the other. Better for the words to slip silently, as if they had never been.
The cherished pitchers — how she had coveted them when he showed her the catalog. They were dulled to dingy verdigris now, scratched beyond any miracle she might perform with the little tub of polish.
But every once in a while, as the late winter sun slanted through the old broken windows, she caught herself holding them up to the light anyway, remembering his words.
And sometimes, when the light was just right, he stood in his own kitchen half a world away — smiling at the memory of copper tresses ablaze.
Music: I Hope You’ll Be Missing Me by The Perishers