Little roses bloom against the sheer white of her apron, punctuated by green stems which collide to form a brooch-like pattern. A whisk and a spatula are held together by the pockets which are threaded together with pink dots. The heat causes her to feel faint as she rests, leaning against the corner of her kitchen. The L-shape of the table’s corner creates a slight dent in her arm. A slight blemish arises, akin to the flush of the roses imprinted on her apron. She squeezes her arm and watches pinpricks of coral begin to appear, she counts the dots on her apron, restarting each time she loses track. Her head begins to hurt and the heat presses against her temples with her white blouse clinging to her back. She wonders how the lines of the whisk would unravel to form a route, a clear definition that would cut across the dots to make fixed, determined shapes. ‘Lucy!’ Shouts a voice from across the room. Annoyance rises up in her as she loses count in constructing her shapes, a pattern she was building with a whisk and a few dots.