This house is filled with settling. The dust cakes in the corners, just as the hair cakes on the floor and the skin cells fill the couch cushions. Happiness means a place of lukewarm chicken enchiladas and a rerun episode of American Idol. The porcelain dolls all look like they're aging, their plastic hair turning greyer with each passing day. On the bright side, the spiders find home here, weaving elaborate ribbons through the synthetic curls.
It is this seeping stagnation that makes me throw open the windows, letting the smell of the neighbor's fire saturate the dusty lace curtains. With luck, the smoke will stay here, spice the dainty fabrics, and make the floorboards groan real low.
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