Four inch heels impeded her progress to the entrance of the building, and November winds whipped the tail of her overcoat, whispering of winter.

A Mercedes passed, piloted by a man clutching a cellphone. She shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other. The bag contained her life; a carefully detailed, pored over, poetically enhanced regurgitation.

Most days, she hardly felt the weight of it. She carried it, and cared for it, guarding it against intrusion from any but the most accepting eyes. On long, lonely nights, it provided comfort, just by being there. It offered proof of her existence and answers to questions; in hopes they might be asked.

She crossed against diesel fumes, and hurried up concrete stairs, hoping the winds wouldn’t “undo” her. The weight of glass and steel paled in comparison to that of the artificially warmed air that greeted her upon opening the door. She hurried through the anteroom and breached a second entrance, while her eyes scanned the landscape for an alcove leading to a bathroom.

Satisfied that her morning ministrations had survived the crossing, she shouldered her burden and struck out, in search of a receptionist.

She left her name at the desk, and surveyed the glass-enclosed space for a seat, choosing a chair opposite the desk in an unoccupied row. Her cellphone trilled, giving her something to do with her hands. It was her son, home from school. “Just checking in…” She smiled in appreciation of the sound of a young boy’s voice, knowing she hadn’t much longer to hear it.

Her smile faded quickly as she pocketed the phone and lifted the tote to her lap. She glanced at the receptionist’s desk as she removed a document from the front pocket of the bag. A striking young man approached; his carefully manicured hands striking the desk twice before he unleashed his artificially whitened smile. The receptionist, at once bored, and barely breathing, reacted as expected by reciprocating. A conversation ensued, uninterrupted by the approach of a second visitor.

She shifted the paper from one hand to the other, uncrossing her legs, and re-crossing them in the other direction as she watched the trio. The young man bent over the counter, reaching, as the receptionist giggled and the visitor cleared his throat. They answered with laughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting his cap.

“Ahem…” She wondered why he thought it would work, this time.

The doors behind her yawned again, sending a blast of cold air through the empty chairs, and an arc of reflective light after it. Irritation marred her painted features, as the receptionist tilted her head. The second visitor moved to block the light, giving his name, before turning.

She plucked at a dog’s hair, caught in the weave of her skirt. She checked her watch. Metal scraped against linoleum. A sigh escaped him as he sunk into the synthetically covered chair, and warmth, generated by the proximity of his body, told her he was near.

It was her turn to clear her throat as she cast her eyes past the reception desk in hopes of spotting her prey.

“Ain’t love grand?”, he started.
She looked up, before meaning to, allowing him to lead her eyes back to the desk.

She smiled and shifted the paper.

“Whatcha’ got there?” He shifted against the firmness of the seat, pulling his jacket together and turning, slightly, in her direction.

“I have to get this document signed…” She held it out, slightly, before training her eyes on him.

“And, you?” She lowered her hand, moving slightly in her seat.

“Meeting with a client. I’m a writer.” His voice carried pride.

“Oh? Really?” She smiled as she let one hand drop to the bag on the floor at her feet.

“What do you write?”

“Ad copy, mostly. And, I blog.”

“Really? Great!” She re-crossed her legs, wishing she had taken off her coat.

“Are you a writer?” His eyes, behind his spectacles, were kind.

“Oh, I write…some. I have a blog.” She shifted the paper, again, watching as it moved from one hand, to the other.

“Cool! Where are you? I could look you up!” His voice carried enthusiasm.

She laughed, self-consciously.

“It’s not public.” She said quietly, before clearing her throat, again. “I mean I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year, but only one person has access to it.”

Confusion, as it crossed his features awakened her insecurities, giving her pause.

“Why?” The word was spoken softly.

Her eyes searched the multi-faceted linoleum at her feet as she considered the question, and, as she turned them on him, spoke before she did.

“I don’t know…” She stopped, as he pulled back his head and shifted his weight. “It’s vulnerable, you know?” Her voice trailed with the last syllable and she mentally berated herself for her weakness.

“But…” He started quietly, before sitting up taller in the inhospitable chair. “Isn’t that the point?” The words were direct, and clear, and spoken by his entire being; and, his face, earnest.

Footsteps approached her chair, and she hastily collected her bag while smiling in his direction. She watched him watch her.

“Thank you…” She efforted to bring her voice above a murmur as she pulled the heavy, oaken door closed before clicking her way down the hallway.

“Hey, kid!” It was the man.

“Yes.” She spoke through a smile, as she shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Walk you out?” The bounce in his step repeated in his eyes as he led the way out of the building.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll