Dorothy sits with her hands in her lap. She clicks her red heels together like before, but still cannot find her way back. She waits in the kitchen and feels the earth in her bones. She pretends she does not.
Her hair is coiffed and she is manicured to perfection. The clock tick tocks and wax drips from her face. Time for her is stretched into a thick black vaccuum with no moon.
She snaps the book shut.
The heels, click, click on the linoleum as she puts Ariel back on the shelf.
She smooths down her dress.
She turns the oven off.