12560
Luftkissenfahrzoig
The walls. Pale green. Dense pink. A
glass fronted hatch part way down the corridor. She serves
appointments and a tight polyester smile. There's a man, with a
buffing machine, huffing a shine onto the resistant floor. Vinyl.
Tiles. Seat upholstery. The records here are of an entirely
different nature.
I sit in a nervatoid tangle. Legs
wrapped round legs wrapped round legs. Pipe-cleaner limbs.
Interlocking fingers. Knuckle cracking. Disinfectant smelling. A
man opens a door to a balcony. He smokes, leaning against a
balustrade. My spindle ribs won't keep it all in. He's smoking
through my mouth. He's leaning on my mind. Air cushion drive thing.
I can't keep it all in.
That box we had in the garage, the
brown one, the one I couldn't lift, the one all sealed up with parcel
tape, what was in that box? I think it's still in the garage,
sitting square and even, straight sided. “This way up,” it's
telling me. I can hear its manila whisper. Maybe it's a Filipino
box.
He stubs his cigarette out, opens his
book jacket and withdraws a knife. I wish it was a scalpel. It's
not. I like surgical steel. He has a double edged blade with a
wooden handle. “No, no, the parcel tape keeps it all in!” He's
not listening to me. In the garage. And he didn't listen to me.
“This way up! This way up! You shouldn't open it!”
The green ones keep me calm. The pink
ones help me sleep. There's yellow ones and white ones too, little
daisies of definity. Part man. Smile. Tight down serves onto
glass. She hatches a machine with the floor. Polyester huffing
appointments resist a fronted buffing. A shine. A way. The
corridor.
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