EPISODE FIFTY-EIGHT
a carton of milk left on the windowsill, attracting flies. darling notices that the couch has wandered away from the wall, tiny ships in disarray on the wallpaper. the couch doesn’t sit right where it should be. she’d been kneeling in the kitchen, scratching at a piece of linoleum. if she found a stray strand of hair, she sealed it in an envelope. duchess had spoken of vaulted ceilings, about putting on her mermaid tail, the house submerged in swaying seas. the house broken in the middle. what i want to do, i have to do: smiling, waving, blowing a kiss. i have a threat to wield, a ritualized baring of the teeth.
fly paper spiraling from the ceiling fan, catching in her hair. she shrieks and pulls away, because she cannot speak. i found my key, darling says, drifting behind her, tied to a balloon string. i worry she will get lost: she needs language to play these parlour games. come on girls, let’s gather round.
this house is a little lonesome, almost like a real home. darling’s toiling in the heat, bleaching every counter. observing herself, she wants it to be real: the very day she buried the key she did not recognize the cat. she thought it hardly worth mentioning. the milk turned sour; the rooms between rooms were difficult to find.
















