Page 54 - WTP Vol. V #5

Marjorie makes a sound as if she has choked on a The notice board reminds staff of the impending crumb. Her latte is back on the saucer, but the training days. Don hated those events, the false cup is crooked and looks as if it will topple. Then politeness, the embarrassing group exercises. Re- Don sees that her shoulders are heaving up and tirement allowed him to escape from all of that. down, under the baggy jacket, as if she is in con- But for what?
vulsion. Little whooping noises come out of her mouth, and tears stream down the dry courses of her face. He wants to mop them, stop them, send them back inside somehow. He proffers his un- used serviette, but she pushes it away. He tries to put his arms around her but can’t find a natural place to hold her—she is all air and bones under the jacket. Everything he does for Marjorie seems unacceptable, repulsive. She won’t let him touch her, pulling in on herself like a sea anemone.
The floor is covered in brown carpet tiles; a pair of woman’s shoes has been tucked under one of the chairs. He can still hear the café music, muf- fled by the fire doors.
The children at the next table are pointing and their mother tells them not to. Don stands beside Marjorie, his arms hanging limp, not knowing what to do next. He looks around. It seems that the attention of the restaurant is focussed on them, judging him, whilst the bright music plays almost maliciously. Don imagines being cast into the swirly blue maelstrom of the carpet and be- ing drawn forever into the cold fabric of chaos whilst Marjorie sobs herself into a dry ball and rolls away.
At eighty-seven carpet tiles, Marjorie stops cry- ing. Don turns around and sees her smile at the woman as she takes a hankie from her pocket and blows her nose.
But from behind him, comes a soft voice, “Let me...”
“Here, go into the staff toilet and get yourself sorted out. I must get back to work.”
He turns to see a mature woman in a white overall.
Marjorie goes off by herself. The woman nods to him. She seems to glance at his jacket. He looks down and finds a shred of bacon on his lapel, just the tiniest bit. He wants to say “thank you” but the woman has gone.
Marjorie allows herself to be conducted away. Don follows stupidly, carrying their bags. She takes them through a doorway marked, “Staff Only,” into a low-ceilinged corridor lit by fluo- rescent tubes. They go into the staff room; it has a few easy chairs and a low table, a sink with mugs draining.
Outside, a cold wind frets across the car park. Marjorie takes the car keys from her handbag. Don follows her to the car. She’ll drive, he’ll guide her. They’ll get home before the weather worsens.
The strange woman is letting Marjorie weep on her shoulder, whilst Don stands there. He doesn’t feel that he should sit down in this room, taking advantage of someone else’s private space. The walls have health and safety notices, something about hygiene and hand washing, a help notice for anaphylactic shock, a list of telephone numbers.
Stott’s work has appeared in Spelk, Firewords Quarterly, Tears in the Fence, and Under the Radar Magazine; her chapbook Touch Me With Your Cold, Hard Fingers was published by Nightjar Press in 2013.
He takes to counting the carpet tiles, noting their differences, the set of the pile. One of them has a piece of chewing gum flattened into it, another has a corner missing.
“I’m sorry to have caused all this fuss.”
“Happens to us all.”
“You’ve been so kind...”
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