How could it be, she thought. that every day the trees look different? marge stirred and a sigh fell short of her lips. every day the trees look different and from the window marge could see not only her sacred tree, bless her, but all of Quincy mackerel's eighty-nine ungodly and fertile eyesores.
Every day from the window, marge stirred her dinner, sometimes letting it simmer into reckless abandonment. she stirred and wondered how the trees looked different and the damned, dastardly vines seemed as though they had not budged. they hadn’t budged. of course they hadn't. oh bother. marge stirred and counted the syllables in the phrase she had only just whispered. out the window and across the null, through a much more angular window, and onto Quincy’s cheek where his sideburns met his ear. she turned in a jerky and awkward movement, pivoting and losing her balance as she ricocheted from the footstool before catching herself on a cabinet door.
At an abundant five-three, her house was belabored with footstools and she dreaded desperately people towering over her. shriveling and patronizing, stinging their grisly armpits in her face as they would abjectly announce, ‘oh here Margie, let me get that, old girl.’
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