(the first half)

A dirty sort of sunlight seeped through the stained white blinds of the office building, diluted by the harsh yellow glow of flourescent lighting. A small girl sat inconspicuously in the corner, arranged quite uncomfortably in a black metal folding-chair, her feet quietly tapping with the rhythm of the typewriter against the blackish-burgundy carpet. She sat anxiously, in turn playing with her fingers and tracing small cartoon animals on the wall with her fingertips. The yellow-green wallpaper had begun to unfurl at the bottom, the dusty strips curling and shriveling like brown winter leaves. Her eyes took in the cat-eyeglasses of the receptionist, black and silver and turning up at the top in a merry sort of sliver; the plastic picture frames from which stared out the lumberjack-looking husband, the four exceptionally plain-faced children, the unhappily crowded family reunion. The receptionist stopped typing and the girl looked away.

Her breath quickened and caught. She swallowed painful amounts of air in a quick attempt to regain composure. The receptionist deliberately cleared her throat, scraping her chair against its plastic mat and conspicuously removing to the far corner of the room. He stood silent in the doorway, the tinkling of the door's bell sounding silly and out of place against his strong outline. She started at his feet, memorizing every inch of his body; the wear marks at the tips of his asphalt-stained work boots, the timbre and texture of his leather jacket, every crinkle and crease in his plaid flannel shirt. He smelled like deep musk and too many cigarettes. She could not look at his face.

With thick fingers he fumbled with two moth-eaten white woolen gloves, stuffing them quickly into his pockets. She studied his hands- hands that for ten years had written Christmas postcard after Christmas postcard, each from a different state, marking them with stamps of quail and birch trees and Frank Sinatra. Hands that wrote large but very neatly- with thick little blobs of ink at the end of each line. They were large hands, stained and rough and cold.


(....now someone in the writing class will write the second half! :])