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are in theirs. She speaks with exaggerated gestures and movements,
severely wrinkling her forehead and extending both her arms as
she continues down the stairs. She wants to show him how apologetic
she is for not taking a few more moment to thank him. He smiles
at her animated gestures. She thinks he understands. She must continue.
He has been giving her apples a few times a week for the past year.
She never has time to stop and talk. Usually she is going up the
stairs at this early morning hour, with makeup smudged on her face,
red dreadlocks flying everywhere, her tight nylon clothing dripping
with sweat. Her aura always smells like cigarettes. Now, for the
first time in a year, her Chinese neighbor inhales the citrus smell
of her shampoo. She has been waiting for this day long before she
even lived in this building. Forty-five minutes later she enters the Lab through heavy revolving glass doors. It smells hygienically clean inside - an imported smell that the city of New York could not have self-produced in a million years, even in midtown. “Welcome to the Tear Stopping Lab at Fifty Sixth Street and Lexington Avenue” a perky female voice strikes her from the right. She feels dizzy from the doors, but the florescent lights make her vision sharpen. She is in a large room lined with glass cases filled with glass frames in all shapes and styles inside. There are roughly forty people sitting in the formica seats set up in lines in the center of the room. This room is so clean, so anonymous. It reminds her of airport lounges. She turns her head to the voice that came from her right, and discovers a long counter with a dozen receptionists tending to customers. The receptionists are all wearing glasses. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Welcome. Step up to the counter, please. Do you have an appointment, Ma’am?” |
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