Lace curtain Irish they called my grandmum and 'da. House proud back two generations I hung the curtains first thing wherever I lived. It poured as I worked; the rain is good luck for the Irish. After these scalloped beauties were dangling on the rods, I stood back and admired the golden light shimmering through the fabric. One loop got missed and I climbed up on the marble sill to unstring that side and get it all in order.
Reaching up to unhook the rod, my heel hit a spot of grease where the Indian woman who lived here before me set her cooking oil bottle down one day months before. She'd been frying papadum when the phone rang and she set the oil aside. One greasy ring absorbed into the stone gradually fading to a dull sheen but still as slippery as glass.
My foot shot out from under me and down I went slamming against that marble, my head hitting it like a bowling ball, bouncing once or twice after the blow. I saw the beautiful swirls of light before my eyes for a few seconds like Vincent's starry night in all it's splendor. A bit of lace brushed across my face and I smelled a whiff of curry.