B. Brassiere

The table sits at a 45- degree angle from the window through which light slants in, illuminating objects Lucy has placed on her desk. A lampshade, a comb, an apron, and a locket. Across the room, she sits at a table under which her feet are nestled in dark silk slippers as she types gently into a rusting typewriter. The copper tint gnaws away at the once-green shine, its glossy surface no longer reflective, yet her attachment to it provides her with a warm sense of comfort. Her neatly groomed nails click against her keyboard as ink letters bleed onto milky white paper. The text formed by the characters bears a structural resemblance to a letter, perhaps, or a diary entry, notes on a newly concocted recipe. Their meaning scrambles into a file where she lines her papers in a precise manner, stacking them at an angle, adjacent to the rings binding them. The definition of a clearly hemmed border proves to be a calming sight. The typewriter rests on a lace tablecloth embroidered with pastel-colored stitching marking little x’s in rows. A smooth white table cloth mirrors the paper she feeds into her machine. A glass of water to her right diffracts the sun’s rays, causing them to burst into little rainbow shards across her desk. The legs of the table hold their roof above her feet, her elbows rest on its sharp edge, softened only by the lace fringed tablecloth. Patterns in the lace converge at myriad points, disciplining their x’s into a straight line. One could count the points at which threads of pink, wrapped around ones in yellow, form a constant interlocution, each thread contending to command a more powerful presence. 
White triangles imposed on a peach background, soft hearts are placed in corners, Lucy adjusts them as she sorts through her ironing. She realises she has run out of fabric softener and ponders if using her hair conditioner would work instead.