Idle

In the middle of the afternoon on a perfectly nondescript Sunday in January, Iris sat straight up and slapped her hands on her thighs. This was not an easy thing to manage, as she had been slouched in the corner of the sofa into which, after days and weeks and years of dedication, she had shaped an exactly inverted replica of her buttocks.

“Enough!” she cried, and the sound echoed throughout the quiet, empty space she called home. Iris had reached an unfamiliar point of resolution while drifting through her vague, disjointed thoughts. “No more idle mornings,” she said in a more restrained tone of voice. “I’m finished with wasted afternoons.” She looked at the clock on the wall, rubbed her hands over her fuzzy pajama-covered knees and said, now softly, “There is still time for the night to be young.”

Iris pulled herself out of her hole, shuffled over to the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water. She sipped, looking out the window onto the bland sky, heard ringing from the deserted street below. She turned to look at the phone in the hall. What if it were to ring just as she left? Larry might call. He could do. Maybe he would call to invite her to the theater. He was a last-minute caller, of course, but she could be ready in a jiffy.

She hoped that elegantly shapeless black dress was still hanging in her closet. She was sure there had to be some black stockings stuffed in the back of her sock drawer. Since it wasn’t raining, she could wear the soft boots with the slight tear in the sole; they were almost as comfortable as her sneakers. Larry was a walker, she decided, so you never knew where they might end up. He might want to walk her all the way home after the show. Iris could see a softly lit door way, hear piano music calling them in. She would definitely order a champagne cocktail.

                                    IDLE 3: a : shiftless, lazy; b: having no evident lawful means of support