An Evening With Ivy.

She looked at me with all the innocence of an old woman baking.
“It’s just that, in our time, more enchanting things happen”.
She put down the potato in her hand, and took up another, peeling onward. I simply sat, basking in the warmth of the fire, the cosiness of the brickwork and the linings of ivy that she had strung up about the place.
“You aren’t following are you?”, she asked gently.
“Well… No”, I answered tastefully.
She smiled, ever looking toward the peeling she was busying herself with. She had peeled an awful lot of potatoes.
“Is there any one else here?”, I ventured.
“No, but there will be”.
“Do they always dress this way?” I asked, pulling at my lapel softly, and fidgeting in my chair.
“Most of the time, yes”, she answered, just as simply as any other way in which she spoke.
“And… and you will stay young?”.
She glanced up at me momentarily, returned her eyes to the potato and said, “Well yes, I suppose I will”.
There was quiet, and the feel that winter was barricading the front door, such a small front door it was. Heavy as it was. Outside the brown cobbles gave away the era, the low gaslights gave the hum of poverty about this street, and I turned my eyes back from the small windows to the little lady sat before me.
 Her skin so pale and smooth, it was English skin, the sort that only sees rain. Her hands looked worked and yet youthful, her lips the delicate darkening pink that experience gives them upon a woman.
She clocked my gazing upon her, and paused her peeling momentarily to run an awkward hand through her raven hair, tucking it back into place under her bonnet.
“Why are you still asking me questions?”, she asked.
“I suppose, because I am trapped here”.
“You may leave whenever you please”, she said with English arrogance.
“It’s a lovely little place you have here”, I said, leaning back onto the oak table.
“Yes, quite. Saved most of this furniture from the tip. Found it”.
“Quite a find”, I said, gliding a gentle hand across the table top, with care not to knock the arrangement of flowers that she had led upon a silver plate.


This may be continued, it may remain. I'm quite fond of it.