An Afternoon

The record player spins its little tune as notes spin around the air. The jazzy tunes seay with the breeze as they traipse away through the kitchen.

The pattering of feet on faux wood, the soft humming of the unbithered lad. The bubbling of water as the noodles reach to a boil. It makes for a bliss afternoon, does it not?

You’d think the soft smiles are anything but, for in what world would everything stand to be this idyllic? The blunt knife sharp despite its edges, and the flowers blooming from the gun does not hide its true nature.

But alas, we shall dance away to the afternoon sun. To the jazzy rhythms as we coast along the day.

Seasoning packets lay strewn on the counter, the plate ready with eggs and chives. The sun beams right onto the pot, reflecting it’s glinmer onto their arms. It makes for a beautiful sight, if it were any other lad.

There’s no escaping the sight of red, really. From the chili powder to the marker on the stove. It’s a warm red, hot with danger but delightfully spicy. With just the right hint, everything would turn brighter. And brighter is what makes it whole, isn’t it? With the sun blissfully bright and the world coated in red, it makes for a beautiful afternoon, truly.

But no matter. Their eyes crinkle, haunted with the softness of wool, as a hand stirs away like that of the record player. The bubbles grew louder and the heat turns scorching. Yet the music still hums, and they stay traipsing down the kitchen.