The wind blown daughters of a century, they called themselves. They used to meet every Tuesday, in tweed and corduroy. Only the sturdy fabrics would do.
My mother would always go to these meetings in knots. And come back unwoven and frayed.
She used to tell us that passion was the thread of the universe.
That was before she came undone.
I write everything on post its now, and wear heavy cotton. A reminder to self to never venture to places between the sensible and the practical.
I stay home on Tuesdays, lock my door, and close the shutters.
But there is no story to this, no murder mystery that needs to be solved.
The simple truth is this, if you are playing to win, you better be sure you have the ace of hearts in your hand. Otherwise, it’s best you stay home.
