Strips of rail peeled. Certain spots, the current curry yellow nearly provided enough cover over the salt-sprayed rust bubbles. Rust bubbles were not something any of the drivers would notice as they fought to gain a foothold against other car-bound crossers. She never had.
The trestles shook as her feet set upon the middle of the bridge. Running gave one a different perspective. The shaking, so pronounced she quaked, could make the sanest person sprint for fear of a collapse. She certainly thought about it, running to fight the world, but the papers she absentmindedly took from the car out of caring habit, would not do well in more wind. If she were to grab the yellow rail and run, she’d surely slice up her right hand, requiring a tetanus shot. Shots were something she did not receive well, unless they were defensive.
His kitchen pine floor, denuded of dirt and salt, thrust its chest out. Shiny, newly polished, so clean Mr. Clean’s bald pate blushed.
photo by Daniel Agee. All rights reserved.
My clinic go okay?
Okay.
I go straight into toilet.
Blake nodded affirmatively. She was more than he bargained this time. Burning bright green eyes, two Ponderosa Pine needles as they burst into flames, strode through bleach blonde hair. A different color shirt every Wednesday, today’s a canary yellow button-down top along with the ever-present translucent white capris. Color meant everything to him, yet nothing, as any color bounced off her fresh-scrubbed pine table tone. She excelled at scrubbing the unseen. She scrubbed the mantle. She scrubbed the first curious day of her arrival.
One day after he fired the last cleaning lady, his seventh in two years, he found the note
Hallo!
My name is Dorota.
I am Polish professionall cliniclady.
With exellent experience in USA.
Who already have a house to clin.
In your neighbours hood.
It would be nice as well to clin.
Beautyfull your home too.
Please – take a contact with me under:
555-555-5500 every day from: 7:00pm.
rubber-banded to the flag on his weathered oak mailbox for which he bargained with an artist in New Mexico nearly five years earlier during a mixed media show. He wished he had taken better care of the brown Pelican, its beak the opening to its throat pouch where the mail rested every mid-afternoon. Alexis, his daughter, picked it out and, although reluctant to give up the knotty oak bough bench he wanted with Cochise carved in the upper right, it had made her happy. Read the rest of this page »
