The walkway to the entrance is a shadow, sprayed clean, still moist in its elongated drying cycle in the early morning humidity in August – the industrial hose is wrapped tightly in the hidden wall closet.
The silver trash can standing a few feet from the elevator has been wiped down and emptied.
The rug under the desk is now free of the paper chads that spilled from the three-hole punch that was toppled over when rushing to answer the phone.
The trash can under the desk with the wax paper Chick-fil-A wrapper has been emptied, along with the paper pocket which held the home fries.
The paper dispenser in the men’s room is replenished. The bathroom floors have been scrubbed with a fresh lemon scented cleaner. The sinks are clean and dry, the toilets wiped down, the mirrors are spot-free and gleam.
My desk top has been wiped clean, yesterday wiped away.
My hands rest on the desktop.
Her hands rest under her head. She sleeps now, and she sleeps hard. She’ll be up in a few hours catching a bus for her second job, laundry and folding sheets for a Comfort Inn.
Investigators dusting this scene and applying a flourescent dye stain and a burst of orange light would find her fingerprints everywhere. The desks. The computer screens. The walls. The floors. The door knobs. The sinks. The toilets.
Kafka was right.
People are sewn into their skins and can’t alter the seams.
The phone rings, breaking the spell.
I’m back, back in my skin.
~ DK
Notes:
- Inspired by: “People are sewn into their skins for life and cannot alter any of the seams, at least not with their own hands.” By Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice
- Image Credit: “Hand” by Lindley king
- Related Posts: Commuting Series.
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