Opening the window wide, the cold, hollow scent of the early morning drifts in. From the attic of the apartment, an orchestra rehearsal echoes through the empty air. The playback machine of the vocal cords has worn out, the soprano voice is hoarse. Feeling the hint of rain seeping through the exterior mortar. 

Suddenly, a pale thin arm stretches from beneath the sofa, offering a portable plastic case. The presence seemed to subsist on soap as a main dish. While playing back rumours secretly, the bubbling season fades away. A faint sadness, washed away. Only the petrified cucumber sandwich remains on the floor.    

Walking alone in the twilight wearing sunglasses is son of Beth. Six months ago, he would stroll with his elderly mother, who favoured purple suits like Queen Elizabeth II, to the deli on the edge of the small town. Beth worked at a radio station in her youth. She confided in her son before she died.

“Not live.”

The horse racing broadcast was not live; it was a pre-recorded programme that was being aired.

…

hiromi suzuki is a poet, fiction writer, artist living in Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, RIC journal, Berfrois, Minor Literature[s], The Dodge and various literary journals on-line.