Every day, an endless procession of feet trudging past her basement window.
Dirty feet in flip-flops, tortured feet in stilettos, bouncing Nike-clad feet. With time the scene changes to soft suede slouch boots, and then to wellington boots – shiny ones, floral ones, staid green town-and-country wellingtons.
Eventually there are no feet at all, the windows whited-out for weeks before white turns to grey and crunching or sloshing noises replace the silence.
In this way she marks the passage of time.
There are other ways, but this she has chosen.
Or was it chosen for her? She can’t remember now.
Just back from an early morning walk on the beach. Our little town is coming back to life, the beach-huts have re-appeared, the lifeguard station is back, and deck-chairs are stacked ready. Let’s hope the virus isn’t biding its time. Thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly stroll.