[She is standing in front of the illuminated television set. Beyond it, the curtains have been drawn shut across the room's window, a defense against the prying eyes of various busybody neighbors. Even so, she is aware—distantly, in the way one notices something but can only bring themselves to observe the fact and not to measure its implication—of a gap between the fabric. A dark space through which the light of the black and white broadcast may be permitted to seep through, painting a pale glowing stripe across the thin layer of snow clinging to the front yard.
She should probably fix that, Maureen thinks.
'I think I can handle closing a few curtains,' says John Robinson from inside the television set.
Maureen twitches awake. When it comes to sitting up in the dark from the narrow twin bed in the house's second bedroom, she goes about it slowly. Presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. Rubs her forehead with her fingertips. It's been nearly a week since the video of the too-familiar Indian woman and her baby, the infant's fat hand being waved playfully out at the viewer, had randomly appeared. Apparently it's lodged itself firmly enough in her thoughts to start plaguing her subconscious. Probably fine.
Also probably fine: the faintest glow of light flickering in under the edge of the bedroom door, notable only for the darkness of the room otherwise. But she can do something about one these things, and not the other.
Which is how Maureen comes to lay a hand on Jupe's shoulder, making to rouse him from where he's asleep in front of the tv. It's late. The broadcast has changed over to shapeless, mute static. The dog is asleep on the rug at his feet.]
→closed to jupe
She should probably fix that, Maureen thinks.
'I think I can handle closing a few curtains,' says John Robinson from inside the television set.
Maureen twitches awake. When it comes to sitting up in the dark from the narrow twin bed in the house's second bedroom, she goes about it slowly. Presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. Rubs her forehead with her fingertips. It's been nearly a week since the video of the too-familiar Indian woman and her baby, the infant's fat hand being waved playfully out at the viewer, had randomly appeared. Apparently it's lodged itself firmly enough in her thoughts to start plaguing her subconscious. Probably fine.
Also probably fine: the faintest glow of light flickering in under the edge of the bedroom door, notable only for the darkness of the room otherwise. But she can do something about one these things, and not the other.
Which is how Maureen comes to lay a hand on Jupe's shoulder, making to rouse him from where he's asleep in front of the tv. It's late. The broadcast has changed over to shapeless, mute static. The dog is asleep on the rug at his feet.]