enter in water

      The green black scent of wet grass and warm soil cut with two-cycle engine fumes reminded her of the slough and the whine of snow machines that ripped up the slush and swamp ice in her back yard just a few months ago. Left cheek and lips pressed into the new mown blades, she felt the front of her shirt absorb the dew as late morning sun brought an ease to the tension in her back. Safe. No matter how many hairy ant legs she imagined crawling up her shirt or spiders nesting in her socks, this way felt safe. Across the street, the circling motor with its whirring choppers now traced the perimeter of the neighbor’s yard. As the boy rode the machine to the center of his lawn, her shoulders hugged up toward her ears each time the mower passed closer. But again as the sound faded, she let herself sink, feeling warmer, closer now than ever. She was gaining ground. The grass in her face, the mower in its concentric, rhythmic turns, the wet at the back of her hands and the pressing heat began to open up that same surround. The one she had previously only been able to enter in water.

      CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP— She was a woman in pumps on a shiny floor. An important woman in linen with a file. A brief. A case. She read the letter to the law and vice versa. CLOP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLOP-CLOP-STOP. She let the smooth manilas slide into each mail slot on the doors along the hall. Memo. CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP. Memo. CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP-CLIP. Memo.

      “Norman.”

      “Helen.”

Between door 109 and 110, at the center of the silver basin of the wall mount water cooler, next to the drain, she deposited the flavorless corpse of her once cinnamon Dentyne, then CLIP-CLOP-CLIPPED to the next door down the hall. Memo. That amoebic twit Norman waited until she turned away from door 110 and turned the knob on the cooler. Helen heard the hiss of the plumbing come to life. Her eyes snapped back to Norman. Norman, whose tie was hanging in the stream, turned quickly to attend his mistake and slapped the tie out of the water’s way which exposed the Dentyne. Helen’s lips pursed, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, then redirected her gaze to her manila envelopes and continued on to door 111. Even with her back to him, she knew Norman removed a yellow sticky note from the top of its pad and discreetly collected the contents of the stainless steel basin. He wrapped the gum with it, then hid the packet in his palm. Helen winced.

      In a pool of her own saliva, sweat and what remained of the morning’s dew, she melted into earth. From behind her florid lids, the sun’s blaze took over ‘til the blood orange view went black. In the inky drift, sensations of fingers, toes, the greater limbs and trunk gave way to neck to head to cheek to lip to tongue and finally her breath. A beat. A heart. A pulse receded into thinness and echoes among other vibrating remnants of motor, of wing and of breeze. Nothing but the slightest breath now stirred the blades around her. But she was down below. Somehow in the center of the sweet white hearts of grass leaves, the ones frequently extracted with teeth, she lingered, then slipped deeper into root.

      Helen let go the last manila envelope into its mail slot at door 130. Having promptly delivered each memo to each office of each paralegal to each of the District Attorney’s lawyers, she treated herself to another stick of Dentyne and went to the lavatory to apply fresh lipstick. Pleased to find the ladies room completely vacant, she tossed the gum wrapper into the toilet in the first stall and went to the row of sinks. As she stepped in front of the vanity, she enjoyed her position reflected in the corner of the mirrors. The trails of her image repeated ad infinitum in two directions. Helen was counting herself when the cleaning woman pushed her way through the door. Helen fumbled for the faucet handles, then over-zealsously pumped the soap dispenser for its pearlized, pink goo. Holding the door open with her foot, the cleaning woman hurled her mop and bucket into the bathroom sending the wheeled, industry-approved combo crashing into the first stall.

      “Washing!” Helen blurted.

      The cleaning woman hauled another cart full of cleanser through the door smashing it into the first stall.

      “Mornink,” the cleaning woman said. It was not, in fact morning, but about 4:47 in the afternoon. The woman grabbed her sponge and a can of cleanser and began sprinkling powder across the gold-flecked Formica.

      “CHOOO!!!  CHOO!!  ahCHOO!!!” Helen fell into a fit of uncontrollable sneezes.

      “Let me,” said the cleaning woman as she wet her sponge and turned the white powder to a blue slurry all across the sinks and counter top. Helen stood by the towel dispenser with the back of her hand to her nose. She happened to be stuck in that same corner of the mirrors when she noticed the wet at the back of her hand was crimson and repeating in a trail of dripping fingers onto infinite gold-fleck Formica vanities.

      “Mine Got!” the cleaning woman shouted…