Tabby

Tabby sank into the springless sofa, feet up, glass in hand, the remains of the vino tucked behind the corner where it wouldn't get spilled. The winter deep freeze had settled in but she was tucked up all cozy with her ratty old throw and fuzzy slippers. Zoning. Some crapshoot flickering on the telly, listening to the thrum and scrunch of motorcars slithering to a stop at the intersection, unconsciously waiting for the bash of yet another accident. Fender benders all, no one seriously injured, just dripping antifreeze, and crushed fiberglass. Hardly earth shattering.

Struck by the rhythm from the tv, her focus shifts to yet another pathetic attempt at engaging her compassion and saving yet more children half a world away while she could not shut out the hungry weeping of the kids across the hall. Offer to help, invite them for tea, make a difference? Sure for a useless moment, and then make another neighbourhood enemy by stomping on what little pride Nan had left.

Cocooned in her tiny flat, she had a decent paying job that she didn't detest, her kids were grown and away, she was a standard white collar worker still living in the blue collar quarter. Talented, well spoken when she paid attention, and fairly well heeled, she was comfortable in her space, but not her skin.

Too often and for no visible reason tears would course the path down her jawline to be quickly swept away by unrecognizable hands stained with age yet attached to her own arms. Another sip of wine...