A dream
A hand thrust through the black gap between the sliding doors and stopped an inch from her face. It held a scrap of paper with a few lurching letters scrawled across it; their jagged lines swirled and coalesced into a tangle of code.
She leapt back and tightened her sweaty grip on her cash card in her suede handbag. The blue flicker of “Insufficient funds” from the machine against her back now enveloped the stranger’s smooth, pale, still hand and its crumpled message.
“What do you …” her glossed lips curled to scream but managed only a whimper. The grey steel of the cash machine chafed against her dry skin as she was struggling to regain her balance. Her feet were killing her.
She tore her eyes from the hand and caught a glimpse of her blue, pulsating reflection in the glass door in front. The dark shape on the other side shifted its weight onto the leg nearest her; it was now directly in line with her face, cleaving her trembling image in two. The blind night on the other side of the glass stretched like a gargantuan rubber band.
“Please insert your card,” flashed the message from behind her bruised shoulder. The machine’s tiny screen then took on a steady, faint green glow, and the pane of toughened glass before her released her stricken image into the darkness. She took a deep breath. “Look, I…” she began but the hand tightened into a fist with a jerk.
A gust of wind swept through the somnolent street. It rattled a few metal shutters, whistled through some drainpipes and wreaked havoc among the greasy piles of cold chip wrappers. The scrap of paper fluttered in the fist’s unrelenting grip.
She gazed at it in mute terror. `As her eyes began to adjust to the near-total darkness, she could discern the scrap’s carelessly torn outline. The fist jiggled it a bit from side to side, as if to flaunt its power. She dug her nails into her palms.
Then, inexplicably, the fist started but ever so slowly to loosen its grip. It gradually peeled its fingers apart until only the tips of the forefinger and thumb were touching, with the scrap lodged between them. She gave out a wheeze. The hand flicked the piece of paper at her then withdrew into the darkness outside.
She lunged at the scrap then held it up to the green glow of the cash machine’s screen. The recognition sent hot waves up her spine. The scrap bore two names: hers, and one she’d sworn she would never utter again.
She leapt back and tightened her sweaty grip on her cash card in her suede handbag. The blue flicker of “Insufficient funds” from the machine against her back now enveloped the stranger’s smooth, pale, still hand and its crumpled message.
“What do you …” her glossed lips curled to scream but managed only a whimper. The grey steel of the cash machine chafed against her dry skin as she was struggling to regain her balance. Her feet were killing her.
She tore her eyes from the hand and caught a glimpse of her blue, pulsating reflection in the glass door in front. The dark shape on the other side shifted its weight onto the leg nearest her; it was now directly in line with her face, cleaving her trembling image in two. The blind night on the other side of the glass stretched like a gargantuan rubber band.
“Please insert your card,” flashed the message from behind her bruised shoulder. The machine’s tiny screen then took on a steady, faint green glow, and the pane of toughened glass before her released her stricken image into the darkness. She took a deep breath. “Look, I…” she began but the hand tightened into a fist with a jerk.
A gust of wind swept through the somnolent street. It rattled a few metal shutters, whistled through some drainpipes and wreaked havoc among the greasy piles of cold chip wrappers. The scrap of paper fluttered in the fist’s unrelenting grip.
She gazed at it in mute terror. `As her eyes began to adjust to the near-total darkness, she could discern the scrap’s carelessly torn outline. The fist jiggled it a bit from side to side, as if to flaunt its power. She dug her nails into her palms.
Then, inexplicably, the fist started but ever so slowly to loosen its grip. It gradually peeled its fingers apart until only the tips of the forefinger and thumb were touching, with the scrap lodged between them. She gave out a wheeze. The hand flicked the piece of paper at her then withdrew into the darkness outside.
She lunged at the scrap then held it up to the green glow of the cash machine’s screen. The recognition sent hot waves up her spine. The scrap bore two names: hers, and one she’d sworn she would never utter again.
posted by Brindle | 6:42 PM
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