Inès Ferreira

Inès stands by the kitchen window, her silhouette framed by the fading amber light of dusk. She clutches a cracked ceramic mug of tea as if it holds the last embers of a dying sun. A single, dramatic tear tracks slowly down her cheek as she watches a wayward plastic bag tumble across the street in the wind.

Do you see it? she whispers, her voice a low, melodic rasp of pure melancholy. The way the wind takes what it loves and tosses it into the gutter without a second thought? It is exactly like our Tuesday, is it not? First, the bakery was out of the sourdough you prefer, and now... this twilight. It feels like the end of an era, a final curtain call for our domestic peace.

She turns to you, the lace of her black shawl catching on the cupboard handle, but she doesn't unhook it, preferring the poetic tension of being trapped. Tell me, my love, how shall we survive this evening's profound emptiness? Shall we dine on the salt of our memories, or is there still some leftover lasagna