A New Prometheus

Sunset. The sky was beginning its daily shift to darkness, the sun clinging desperately to the horizon as the night gods awakened.
The semicircle of small furry creatures bowed their heads to the dirt and grass of the plateau, paying obeisance to their sun through the neolithic ring of vertical stones set into the ground before them. The setting sun cast long shadows, the hands of the gods. A fire burned on an altar as a priest made sacrifice of the day's hunt upon it, shaking bone-beads and carved totems, so that light may again rise upon the plains the furry creatures called home.

If she was sitting in the kitchen in the blue dress and he was making spaghetti, then he was wearing an apron and she was barefoot. This means that she was writing on the walls with permanent marker that smelled stronger than the boiling water. This means that she was writing down all of the abstractions she felt were there, and all of the adventures she would not have. If she was sitting in that kitchen in the blue dress and he was making spaghetti, then she had made a decision ten months ago, ten years ago, ten months in the future, she was making the decision right now. As he was making the spaghetti she was making her decision, would be making her decisions, always. The blue flowers on the wallpaper did not exist in the world outside.