There wasn’t a square corner in the place. Every angle pinched acutely or yawned obtusely. Every line bowed this way or that. If you rested your temple against the wall and looked towards a corner, it was as if you perceived the curvature of space itself. The building was skewed with the drunkenness of its architects those generations ago. It lay at the edge of the clearing in a murky wood. At this elevation, nearby peaks caught hulking afternoon thunderheads as they trundled past, but the golden hour was often left clear and placid. God Himself tied finishing touches on the day in rainbow’d ribbon. The soil beside the deck was spongy and cold beneath her feet as she waved goodbye to the guests who’d ventured here only to speak in generalities and leave behind the odd article of clothing.
The parties were nearly as unbearable as the stretches of aloneness. Anyone she invited out here never came alone. It was always handfuls of people and usually one or two more than there were seats for. They staggered and sprawled across worn out rugs and worn-smooth floorboards alike. They would parade through, like a band of mendicant friars, in a clinking of glass, a shuffle of feet and a dull, spiraling murmur of vacant illocutions.
“This place must be a hundred years old.”
“Don’t you get lonely out here?”
“The view is just beautiful.”
Usually, on the second or third day, everyone would come to a hush, the better to hear the muffled sublimity of the afternoon tempests beyond the meandering walls. That was always the day they’d leave and the only one she wished they wouldn’t.
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