Trying
Trying to reach the rosewood box, Abigail toppled from the boudoir chair, bringing it all down with her, everything, including the box and its tiny silver key, and slicing her forehead against the edge of the dresser. She lay awhile on the carpet gazing up at the dust motes dancing among her grandmother's scattered perfume bottles. Otherwise, everything was still, including Nestor, who had observed it all from his perch among the pillows.
She decided that she would blame Nestor. In past he had successfully absorbed blame for a spilled philodendron and six missing shell-shaped Belgian chocolates. Abigail made a cursory movement towards him, to legitimize her story, but he leapt to safety beneath the huge bed. She was woozy, or she would have tried harder to snag him by the tail. Instead she sank to the floor, leaving a ferocious scarlet handprint near the fringe of the chenille bedspread.
Nestor's yellow eyes flickered in the dark space beneath the bed. Abigail closed her own sticky eyes, and as the minutes evaporated she became gradually aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. But wasn't it always like this: so much waiting for anything to happen, anything at all.