Choking On Mice

Soap bubbles of various sizes orbit her head, like transparent planets with rainbows whirling, each has a stroke of hypnotic beauty that captivates her eye. She squeezes the bottle again, releasing another solar system into her universe, flowing into the light beaming through the window. What light. What wonderful living light after a day of soaking, dark rain, and nothing to do but sit all day and brood, and wish for it to end, with the dead leaves plugging storm drains, and the street flooding.

She pokes one bubble with her pudgy fingertip; it explodes with a silent pop, and she feels the burst of first energy, a gasp of breath, and giggles. She splashes the water in the sink, foaming even more bubbles, bigger bubbles, churning them into a thick frothy mass. She scoops the foam into her palms and blows dark wormholes, speckling the window with warm water spots. She swirls the water once again, where the dirty dishes lurk: Spoons, forks and knives. A roasting pan. The bubbles begin to weaken in the heavy grease. But this is their job after all, isn’t it: To suspend oil and dirt in water, rinse down the drain and keep it flowing.