Widow

She walks straight into the industrial loft showroom, searching for the rustic vintage teak study desk. The dark shaded timber furniture on display blend in with the red and burgundy floor rugs. They float on the dark metallic painted floor. It makes her feel claustrophobic and reminds her of the wake room at the funeral. Halfway into the showroom, she spots her desk standing next to a red Victorian Tiffany-Style floor lamp.

She races towards it ignoring the other shoppers and the enticing aroma from the coffee cart two metres to her right. The long drape of her moss skirt brushes the heels of her bare feet. She leans on the short edge of the desk, closes her eyes and breathes in slowly, then out. She tries to block the chattering customers, the professional tone of the friendly salespeople and the whining of coffee grinder. She lays her slender tanned hands on the rough surface of the rustic teak. Her half-moon shaped fingers are tracing the grains in delicate circles. She smells the sandalwood incense and hears the trickles of the Feng Shui water fountain. Then the void hits her and brings a lump to her throat.