The Man of the House walks down the staircase again. Slightly less natural light than before shines upon the indoor staircase and corridor. This walk down the stairs takes slightly longer than the previous one. Just a slight tad longer. His expression is vacant. The 6’2” frame lending the tweed suit life, that of a true mesomorph. The stark eyes behind the glasses, it all seems to indicate, are… clear greenish-blue; the nose, size small, with XL nostrils. The hairline dividing the tan complexion from the combed-back, thick head of white, as sharp as that separating the brown from the white leather of his shoes. While, it appears, very closely shaved - while, it appears, no beard growth visible – the herculean jaw, chin and upper lip still give a seasoned, sandpapery appearance.
And the air in the staircase is clinical, the staircase’s finishes precise, the staircase’s surfaces spotless. The level of lighting, showroom-grade. He stops mid-flight and looks up beyond the soaring, white walls to the skylight. The cloudless sky beyond the glass, it all seems to indicate, is… clear greenish-blue. He stares at it for a couple of moments. He appears to ponder about it for a moment. He then looks back down and continues his descent toward the ground floor.
The Pretty Amazing Housewife is standing in front of a vast wall of casework in the kitchen, holding a glass baking tray in her hands. Her expression is easy and cheery, the permanent smile of pristine pearl-whites just behind their thick, curvilinear, crimson-hued frame. Big dark brown irises contrast sharply, not just with their shining surrounding scleras, but with the healthy, ultrafair, spotless complexion around. The tips of her naturally curved, you’d-think-they’re-fake black eyelashes almost tickle her naturally sharp black eyebrows. Her naturally sharp black eyebrows lightly stoop below the temples and rise at the nasal bridge to softly contest her merry appearance with a melancholic tone. But you can always count on a plump pair of apples to restore the guise to glad. And on the playful waves of 40’s-styled hair - black with concaving and convexing specular blues, in fact - to appease the sternness of that imposing, vector-straight, trophy of a nose. Right? Now. Bodywise? Keeping it simple, a 10. Making it technical is at least less subjective. Talk 5’10”. Talk 36-25-37. Talk a hundred and thirty-five pounds. Talk a natural mesomorph… of the softer, female variety. And to this you’d attest by her crisp, revealing attire.
And the air in the kitchen is clinical, the kitchen’s finishes precise, the kitchen’s surfaces spotless. The level of lighting, showroom-grade. She reaches for the top shelf to put away the glass baking tray. She reaches it easily, and this way stores the glass baking tray away.
The Angst-Ridden Teenage Daughter is sitting at the edge of her queen-size bed staring at the ceiling. Her expression is inquisitive and defiant, a permanent frown. Pristine pearl-whites hide behind their thick, curvilinear, charcoal-shadowed gate. Big dark brown irises contrast sharply, not just with their shining surrounding scleras, but with the doubtfully very healthy, ultrapale, acne-colonized complexion around. The tips of her naturally curved, you’d-think-they’re-fake black eyelashes almost tickle her naturally sharp black eyebrows. Her naturally sharp black eyebrows lightly stoop below the temples and rise at the nasal bridge to softly contest her wary appearance with a melancholic tone. But don’t count on a plump pair of apples to transform the guise to glad. Or on any of the playful waves of a 40’s-styled hair. Black untended damaged strands deny the specular blues. No appeasing the sternness of that imposing, vector-straight, trophy of a nose. Now. Bodywise? Keeping it simple, a 10. Making it technical is at least less subjective. Talk 5’10”. Talk 36-25-37. Talk a hundred and thirty-five pounds. Talk a natural mesomorph… of the softer, female variety. But you would never know. Not with those drab, oversize, worn, sweats-turned-perennial-pajamas lazily following her around everywhere she goes.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
And the air in the bedroom is clinical, the bedroom’s finishes precise, the bedroom’s surfaces spotless. The level of lighting showroom-grade. She considers going to the bathroom. She glances over at the bathroom door. It’s right by the bed. She drags her way out of bed and into the bathroom. Takes a potent, rebellious dump. The smart ventilator automatically turns on, full-speed, no less. She looks down and through the loosely trapezoidal opening formed by her fuzzy vulva, the toilet seat, and both her upper thighs at a single, ruler long -- ruler straight -- reddish-brown log. Boy, that’s a fattie. Grabs then ample toilet paper and makes a toilet paper softball. Wipes. Brings the softball back up and looks at the stain. What stain? Yay. Dumps the softball in the toilet, stuffing it through the loosely trapezoidal opening. She then washes some hand. She emerges from the bathroom the same 5’10” and 36-25-37 (though you would not know it) but now a half-pound lighter. She gets back in bed. She lays on her back. And she gets back to her frowning, defiant stare down of the ceiling.
Laying in its crib in the master bedroom is The Heir-Apparent Newborn Son. His expression is peaceful. About nine months in on his elated existence, he’s sleeping, just as he was a little over nine months ago, and his expression is peaceful.
And the air in the master bedroom is clinical. The master bedroom’s finishes, precise. The master bedroom’s surfaces spotless. The level of lighting, showroom-grade. He just lays there, face up, eyes closed, within the rails of the crib they’ve reposed him in, across from the king-size and the dresser and the armchair and the slightly concave-from-inside, continuous, floor-to-ceiling glass curtain wall with the clear blue skies behind it.
The amount, type and location of your everyday domestic item in every space, exact. Planned. Brainstormed. Committeed.
Permanent.
The music everywhere inside the house – the omnipresent, louder-than-life music permeating every cubic inch of the inside of the house -- is the song ‘Sidewinder’ by Lard from their 1997 LP Pure Chewing Satisfaction.