My Cardboard Balcony

Will I by Belinda Roddie Will I kiss you, hold you, keep you, in the constructs of my psyche, behind the velvet curtains where I keep my heart locked up in a chest with no key to open it?

I was still deciding whom to allocate my wealth to once I died when the butler, Timothy, staggered in. It was clear from the smell that he was rather drunk; he had probably dipped one or two many times into the leftover punch from the party the previous night. As he swayed, I could see his eyes practically sliding around in their sockets, like crystal balls rolling out a foreboding future. "Ma'am," he slurred, before nearly pitching forward, but then righting himself, "your rel...your rela...your uncle and aunt is here."