Sixty Revolutions

The door spins lazily with that little mosquito-whine sound only audible when no one is around to draw the ear with their clattering footsteps on linoleum. Slightly louder, a brushing constant, is the schuff schuff  of the bottom of the door, that little brush part that no one can remember the name of but looks like the baleen of a whale. The door baleen collects dirt and dust to hold until the friction of the floor finally pulls them under and smudges into inconsequential smears.

You stand just outside the revolving door, close enough that the sensors pick up your approach and set the door spinning again. A single muddy boot print lies dark on one side of the entrance, but grows fainter with every spin, wiped away by the door. You recognize that boot print. And the boot it belongs to.

The faint thumping in your ears could be from the faraway music you dread to near, or your own heart, frantically trying to escape your chest. You raise your hand to press it against your collarbone, as if that is enough to calm your breathing and banish the sticky sweat from your spine and armpits.

Eau de Memory

People smell.

No matter where they come from, what they do for a living, or how much effort they put into it, the odor of human society is a mix of perfumes, cologne, deodorant, eau de whatevers, and even the dreaded BO. Hell, there’s even articles about “why does my lover’s sweat smell so good” for those poor souls who don’t realize that it’s all about sex. Sex is sweaty. Sweat reminds you of sex. Especially the person you tend to sweat and sex with the most.

Go ahead. Look it up.

For my family, scent is everything. From my great-great-(insert a few more greats) grandfather, putting together oils and herbs to mask his daily labors from his wife’s rather more delicate sensibilities to my sister Clara’s “Mix and Make” suburban scent shop, perfume is life. Hygiene is life. Even as toddlers, none of us were allowed out of the house until we were thoroughly bathed (scentless soap to not clash), shampooed (also scentless), deodorized (I bet you can guess what kind), and perfumed. A different scent each day.

You can imagine that my sisters and I grew up slightly neurotic about smells. The slightest whiff of something unpleasant is enough to make us feel green, even today. Even as adults, in an adult world and with adult smells, we try to mask it from our noses in our own little bubble of Dior Hypnotic Poison.

And that was how we could drift along in our little sheltered bubble, in a world we made to smell fresh and clean and perfect. Just as long as you didn’t look too closely, of course.

Now, someone might think to call us snobbish and entitled.

They are absolutely, one hundred percent, completely and totally correct. What sort of family can afford to perfume fucking babies for crying out loud? Really godawfully rich ones, that’s who. Probably the only reason Clara and I weren’t bullied for smelling like a couple of fruitcakes is that the private school we went to was full of other kids as pampered and wacko as we were. None of us had any idea what normal people were like. We didn’t get that until our twenties, and even then we were safely ensconced in a buffer of social events and trust funds.

Boohoo, I’m so rich, poor me.

Reluctantly New

The door swung open to let in a breath of fresh air and a man leading a woman by the hand. Somewhat self-consciously, by the way her lips twitched up in a smile that was only half-natural, the woman wore a makeshift blindfold. It threatened to slide from her eyes and past her nose, so her free hand pressed to the cheap pink fabric to hold it in place.

“-and just wait until you see the upstairs bathroom,” the man continued his gushing ramble as he stepped over the threshold. Dirt trailed from his worn tennis shoes and worked its way into the carpet. “And the-” he blushed and tripped over his tongue before sending a fleeting glance back to the woman he led, “-the, ah, the bedroom is just right for…”

Silence stretched between them after the man awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Sure, Dan,” the woman finally said. Her voice softened the initial silent rebuke carried by her words, and she made an effort to push her reluctant smile into something more visible. “It sounds great.”

Saved by the content of her reply, if not the tone, Dan managed a confident smile in return. His shoulders relaxed, and he let go of her hands. “Welcome to the new Walters household!” He punctuated the proclamation with impromptu jazz hands.

Dialogue Practice #1

“You can’t possibly think we have any chance at all to win this,” the woman snapped from where she sat, poised with ruffled feathers upon the edge of the desk like an irate cuckoo. A pristinely manicured hand lifted to smooth back her hair, chin lifting as she worked to calm herself.

The man standing across from her lifted both hands slowly, palms out towards her. “Diana, it will be okay,” he attempted soothingly. “At least we can get a deal out of it-”

“Don’t patronize me!” she snapped, sliding off the desk to bare her teeth at him, both sets of dark eyes unblinking as the two squared off almost nose to nose. “It’s not as if you need the money, not with all your-” the sentence went unfinished as she gestured at his suit.

“That doesn’t mean I’m any less convicted in success.”

“Harry, Diana. Both of you, just-” a third voice rose and immediately halted with a disgusted scoff.

Man and woman turned both to look at the third, a man hardly older than a fresh-faced boy. He lounged in a cushy chair with leg slung over the arm. His suit was rather ill-fitting, but he sat there with a certain oozing confidence.

“We’ll go for the deal. We have to,” he continued, a callused hand gesturing to them. “What, eight witnesses? Video feed? She has no record, good references for behavior, and hell, if she can be teary as needed, they’ll eat it up. Burglary with no benefit? Half a year tops.”

“And what about the election?” Diana stopped bristling, if only to lean back against the desk with arms crossed. “Victor, if she’s not out by November to do her vlogwork-”

“That’s not our concern,” Harry’s voice was a quiet rumble. “The next president doesn’t hinge on our client being able to make videos.”

“Yeah? Last time, she was in Italy, and look who we ended up with.”

Victor let out a gust of a sigh. “Right. So we shoot for a deal, yeah?”

“Right.”

“…Fine.”