A cruse of shadowed oil fell from the far shelf. A closed chrysanthemum of grey stone on a pinwheel of string lights in green and white, the fifty foot pattern on the circular terrace, with the thousands gathered round. Many were the bald heads and the spectacles, the cats in laps, and the canes leaned against desks and armrests.
Wild hair took the part, and the quarter vinyl that got the racer’s cue. Without any slight of hand the crates of bottles of varying fullnesses went under the arched root in the factory, rattling like snakes and ladders. The smell that marked them all was no bitter label, but something the feet of the chute would not forget.
Wild hair burnt to the ground – another bald head filtering into the collection round the stone.