It’s late at night. The bright light from Laura’s small office spills out through the doorway onto the dim light of the hallway. In the daytime, you can see a tasty slice of Toronto skyline through the one, long, thin window. Now if you look into the window, you just see Laura and the room glimmering in their own reflection. It is all there is for the seeing. You could stand in the doorway, look into the window and see what you wanted.
You could observe how Laura’s face is drawn with concentration as she works. Her features are precise and maybe you would say a bit hard; but then she has eyes that are big and green and a mouth that looks like it’s never really entirely dry, and usually not even closer to dry than say the inside of a fresh apple. It’s hard to describe her. Laura doesn’t just look like anybody else. Just let me say the overall impression she makes is that what you have here is a very beautiful woman.
What you did then would be up to you. These are bad times; getting worse. Maybe your tastes run to horror movies. Maybe it is surprises that you want, an explosion of sound and movement, rape, murder, mayhem. Or maybe I’ve got you all wrong, and all you want is some class, some dialogue that’s kind of funny and true and uplifting and goes on from that thought Cary Grant land on to where we can see George Clooney frolic with …oh, what is her name, these days? It doesn’t matter; frolicking with somebody cute with style and a brain and an interesting job.
Yup, let’s hover a moment with our eyes about a quarter inch from her forehead and stare into those unblinking orbs of hers.
Laura’s sitting in the room in her mind only now there is a handsome man at the doorway. His name . . . well, somehow he’s got my name and he’s been watching her only she doesn’t know it. She has been working fast, inspired, with her whole body and mind online, creating a graphic on the screen. And now she can see she has created a wonder of an image: a brilliant red heart beating against a background of purple incandescence.
Then Laura presses a key and the heart stops beating, and breaks into two as the background breaks down into a melange as ugly as the world most days, in most ways. And as our image of Laura fades out we see her laughing or shrugging or maybe you think you saw her crying for a moment; it’s hard to make her out now in the near dark; but still you can hear or maybe just feel her breathing, with her heart still beating in your hand as you walk away.
@ 2016 David Clarke