Discoloration

Outside the elevators it caught my eye. A large mark spread across the floor in uneven curves and a splatter pattern. The fallen drink—whatever it was—had left the tile several shades whiter; it made me think of bleach, and the way my mother would pour it on our uniforms to remove the discoloration of everyday wear. But the black collar could not avoid it, and turned red and orange in uneven shades. The instructor pulled me aside one day and said my mother really oughtn’t use bleach; it’s ruined; and I need to buy another.

No. 151

Resale

The dresser looked bulky as the two men struggled to carry it. Younger than me, they still needed to learn from experience. One walked backward, holding one hand along the bottom while the other clutched shut the drawers on the front. The one in the back, sweat breaking out on his forehead, kept both palms on the bottom. He wore flip flops, and, as he passed me, the base of the footwear caught on the upturned sidewalk, creasing it in a diagonal across the base. He stepped down and, unable to maneuver himself with the dresser, crushed the flip flop beneath his foot. He lost his balance for a moment, cursed under his breath, and readjusted the dresser in his hands. He instructed his friend to stop, and, lifting his leg, attempted to flatten the flip flop out and slip the knot between his toes again. This was a struggle, and he found it prudent to kick the flip flops off into the grass, choosing to walk barefoot down the dusty sidewalk to a destination I could not discern.

No. 134