Purgatory

His voice echoed through the hall. She listens, absentmindedly. Forks clinked against cheap dinnerware from Bi-Mart as a light breeze brushed across the table cloth. The flower in the vase sways lightly. It was another bright afternoon. The morning was spent cooking for lunch, so many delicious things! Now, their taste mirrored the empty white walls. A silver chair leg shimmers as it scooted toward the light. He gesticulates; he the teacher, his fork the pointer, she the student. Her eyes narrowed. Her fork darted across the plate. It scraped. The windows were open but it was silent outside. Nothing but the light washing over the room. She paused to sip from her glass. She contemplated assurances. He bemoaned political correctness. As she set the glass down, a figured darted a corner, toward the door. It was dark. The walls whispered to her. She excused herself and he continued speechifying. Continued to stuff food into his face. The fork begged for air. Her white clothes billowed around her light frame as she followed the dark figure. The breeze pushed her as easily as it had the flower. The hallway continued. As did she.