The Lucy Hour

In the Details

There was nothing as satisfying as sliding together two broken pieces and watching them connect.  When the crack becomes just a faded memory. When fragile fragments become whole once more.

She held the freshly fixed teacup up to the light to admire her handiwork. A quick dip in the porcelain white paint here, a delicate brush there, and the faint line is erased from sight. Perfection. The devil is in the details.

Placing the cup down on a table covered in newspaper, she left it to dry while shifting her attention to the obituaries printed for today. She circled a few that looked promising and stood from her small crafting table. Careful consideration to moving her chair so that it wouldn’t bump against a pitiful coffee table that marked the end of her “work area” and the beginning of the “living room”. Her studio apartment wasn’t the biggest space but what it lacked in size she made up in heart and eclectic style.

She settled on the plum loveseat tucked against a bricked alcove and pulled her computer onto her bare lap. New York summer days, no air conditioning, and a prewar building meant that she basically lived in her underwear for the next three months.

Time for a treasure hunt. She searched the addresses from the newspaper and cross-referenced with the daily estate sale postings. It was kind of sad, the way a lifetime was put on display and set for sale, going to the highest bidder. The little things that were collected over time, cared for in their delicacy and sentimentality, so easily and cheaply bought.

She thought back to her black dress, the somber air, the way he didn’t look like he was sleeping. That was a Hollywood lie. He hadn’t looked peaceful. He looked different; the life drained from his skin. He looked heavy and quiet, and she wanted to be anywhere but there. He had been so full of life, so handsome and wonderful. That was a tough one. That day. That dress. She could never wear it again.

Loud sounds of summer traffic outside her open window brought her back to the present. A few quick clicks here, an airdrop there, and she now had a list all set for hunting.

*

The back of her hand wiped the sweat from her brow, the already hot apartment becoming unbearable with the stove heat. She stirred the melted wax, watching the beads transform from solid to a transparent yellow liquid. Rich like honey but thin as water. Her little fan in the corner wasn’t helping alleviate the oppressive weight of humidity. She wished she had planned according to the weather forecast, opting for a journey to tar beach instead.