The Dust on the Third Stair

The upstairs here has wallpaper the color of dried celery. I find myself tracing the pattern with a finger. Near the linen closet, a floor lamp casts a persistent yellow light. The film projector whirs, its lens projecting only a steady, gray hum onto the far wall. I touch the brass housing of the machine; it feels warm, a perfect temperature, though nothing has run through it. I study the glass bell jar on the dresser, a weight I do not know. It holds a chipped blue sugar bowl. My brother stands by the window, watching a pigeon lift its wing. I pick up the sugar bowl, examining the enamel wear on its lid. The girl beside him laughs, her shoulder a sudden, solid presence. She stares at the projector’s heat vent.