The door did not open. Much like many of Greta’s arteries, it was quite blocked.
She happily returned to the dormer and tried the window. It slid open as if well floured and buttered.
I could not begin to describe the tremendous experience of going out on the rooftop in heels, except to say don’t try it at home. Greta, much to her dismay, was not at home and far too stubborn to remove any part of her ensemble. If she fell to her doom, then she would surely try her hardest to make it look fabulous, and that was all she could ever hope to do.
Remiss to leave her little bedroom containment chamber, which she had grown quite found of in the medium-short duration of returning to consciousness, she crouched down on the window sill and poked one leg through to the other side, just far enough for it to touch slated ground. Perched atop that ledge like a young finch ready to take flight, she leaned in the direction of her outstretched feathery appendage, and rolled herself through to freedom.
Putting her weight on the ball of her foot, Greta stood erect and took a long drag of the fresh, jasmine-scented night air, posing for all the heavens to see, and for all the vibrant denizens of the Mission District, as well. And just as she reached the apex of her glory atop that charming Victorian cottage, a fog horn sounded in the distance, blasting her off balance. She wobbled to one side, waving her arms here and there, and then, all a kilter, toppled over, rolling over the roof—a veritable pinwheel of cashmere, pagmina and hemp—down a verticle carpet of ivy and into a bed of red, white and blue hydrangea.
And there, having just awoken, Greta punctually returned to unconsciousness.
To join Greta in unconsciousness, please click here.
