Keep on the Borderlands; II

“What are you thinking about?”

I returned with sudden awareness and focused on the sticky pad of dried milk surrounding the machine’s right front leg.

“What?” I ventured.

“I said, what are you thinking about. Are you even listening? God.” She strode around the corner and out of sight.

I was cleaning this area. Dabbing absently, the rag too dirty to do more than shift distribution of the fetid water and coffee grounds that swirled beyond the drain’s influence. The faucet and knobs were beginning to discolor. Under the sill were grains of sweetener trapped amidst the plastic mesh shelving liner. Eyes pulsed with a steady, cold ache. I wiped at the most conspicuous surfaces and pulled the half door closed behind me.

Canary walls and chipped wood led into the nave. The machine smells lessened, giving way to cut flowers and a farmhouse palette of stale bread.

“Well, I really need off so please don’t forget. I’ve told you like five times but you never listen to me. Barbara is totally freaking out and after last Friday she’s never going to speak to me again if I have to bail on another fitting. Did you do the sheets for tonight? Did you see Joe? He’s acting like a lunatic. Did you polish?” She lifted a tulip to the light.

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” Her eyes narrowed and she stood waiting for a reply. I should tell her that I have brain maggots.

“I have brain maggots.”

“What?”

“I have maggots in my brain.”

Rachel sighed and rolled her eyes, replaced the glass and bent fussing beneath the terminal where she stored her personal effects. “Yeah I know, I know. Who is working tonight? Please don’t tell me it’s Klaus.” Her belt was black leather and studded with metal squares, straining against the loops. I wanted to grab it with both hands.

“I don’t know. Henry, I think. Justine or whatever.” My eyes were slipping forward out of their sockets. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t forget. Next Friday.”

It was so peaceful before a service. I picked at the lint on my lapel and crossed back through the transept. The jacket clung uncomfortably but I couldn’t remove it. In the foyer I slipped behind the pockmarked slab and stabbed at the touchscreen.

Children discovered Lascaux. It is understandable that they would wish to keep such a thing hidden. Save.

Light tonight. Behind a flimsy door the stair led down to the crypts. Poised to draw it open I could see into the vaulted bar room as the black clad scurried about in preparation.

“Hey,” I called. He waved. She just looked at me.

I hurried down the stairs, grinding my teeth together. Just let me hide. Just let me gnash furiously, snapping disconsolate at bare heels that come too near. The bathrooms on this level were less trafficked and afforded some degree of privacy. Also, paper towels. Through another thin door the sounds of dishes stacked and slotted in haste, the whir of motors, and lilting treble of unsanctioned music.

I slid the bolt and peeled the black cloth away from my body. I stared hard into the mirror. Oh, it was so much worse. Pallor, bloat, the bags chalked in harshly, the head advancing. I could feel each glossy leg gliding just beneath the scalp, rippling the hairline and prodding the backs of my straining eyeballs; tracing the scarred amygdala. I kneaded palms into each socket and lapped at the dripping tap.

When the heat sinks were changed and the coat reattached I could finally consider strategy. We would go, certainly. It was Tuesday. I had to be fun now, funny now, jocular, jocularity was the order of the day and could I not deliver? I couldn’t think straight. The table in the corner would be best. It afforded the best acoustics for speaking when the room was full. I would sit next to her. No, better that I sit first and allow her to make a choice in where to sit so I know how to proceed. No, better yet, I would take the furthest position possible. I would sit last.

In the mirror I adjusted a necktie.