The Man in 5E

I wrote this one as part of a revision exercise where someone had "told" us the story (the ending or the cliff hanger is mine) and my job was to revise it to add color and to "show" aspects of Marcie through the writing.

Marcie’s mousy-brown hair hung in wet ringlets around her head while her jacket dripped on the linoleum floor. She caught a glimpse of herself in the skinny, cracked mirror between the two elevators doors and pursed her lips.

Oh, my mother would love this look.

She rolled her eyes and decided that walking the two extra blocks to get cat food without an umbrella was clearly not the best idea for her hair, her not-so-waterproof jacket, or her new teal pumps. She sighed and pushed the button to call the only working elevator in her brownstone apartment building.

The skin on her arms and legs prickled with gooseflesh and her stockinged feet slid around in her shoes. If Dan hadn’t asked her that stupid question about the sports article he was writing, she probably would have been thinking more clearly before dashing out the door. 

Why does he always seem to do that at five o’clock?

A corner of her mouth lifted.

He’s cute, I’ll give him that, but his cheese had definitely slid off his cracker.

Watching the arrow above the elevator move towards one, Marcie flicked a strand of hair out her eyes and decided she didn’t care how she looked. Her cat, Tommy, was the only one who would see her tonight now that she and Bobby were in the off-again phase of their complicated relationship. Besides, the only thing she cared about right now was getting up to her apartment and into some warm, comfy pajamas so she could escape into the arms of channel-surfing oblivion. She felt the first burn of a blister on the back of her left heel and envisioned the unopened bottle of red wine on her counter. Marcie smiled to herself, she was almost home. 

When the elevator dinged and the door opened, Marcie hesitated slightly before stepping in. The elevator was warm and close and while she would normally avoid the elevator in this old building, her feet hurt too much to walk up five flights today. Pressing the fifth-floor button on the worn panel, she sniffed the stale air and sneezed.

Great. I’m probably getting a cold.

The elevator door closed with a squeak and after a few seconds, it began its laborious assent to Marcie’s floor. She leaned against one of the brass rails in the car and closed her eyes. She imagined open spaces and simultaneously willed the claustrophobic elevator to move faster. The elevator didn’t seem to heed her plea as it inched upwards. After a few moments, she peeked up at the floor display to see it rolling over to five.

Thank God!

The elevator lurched to a stop, the door slid open, and Marcie leapt out. She turned left towards her studio apartment at the end of the carpeted hall. Reaching for the key clip in her bag, she stopped a foot from her front door.

Where are my keys?

Opening her shoulder bag, she moved her hand around inside her bag, listening for the familiar jingle and expecting to feel a bunch of cold metal keys. Nothing.

Oh, my god.

Her mind raced trying to remember when she last saw them.

At work? Yes, but when? After lunch? No. After the morning meeting? Maybe. Did I take them out? leave them on my desk?  

She always clipped them to the key clasp inside her shoulder bag, but her hand continued to probe her shoulder bag, pulling random items out and then stuffing them back into her bag. She patted her jacket pockets and shook her head, she couldn’t remember and they were gone.  

She frowned at the prospect of having to call Bobby and borrow his key, but it was the only way in at this point. Resigning herself to her fate, she reached into her bag, but her phone was not there either.

Crap, crap, crap!

Marcie blinked back tears as her plan for a nice, quiet evening at home fluttered away like scrap paper in the wind. She swore under her breath and started back towards the elevator just as the man in 5E opened his door and crashed into her.

Ow!

He seemed in a hurry and oblivious to Marcie as she bounced against the wall opposite his door.

Who is this guy?

The man slammed the door behind him and turned around. Seeing Marcie, his eyebrows shot up and she gasped. The front of his shirt was covered in blood.

Harlequin’s Carnival

The young woman rubbed her hands on the top of her thighs and looked at her Cartier wrist watch, the tenth time in the span of five minutes. Biting her lip, she smoothed the material on the front of her pastel blouse. She shifted in her seat again and glanced at the abstract painting on the wall in front of her while her knee bounced rapidly. The heel of her slingback shoe clicked softly on the linoleum floor.

She studied the busy receptionist whose sweet perfume hung heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. She coughed again, this time a little too loudly.

The receptionist stopped typing and looked up.

“Um… how much longer before I can see Dr. Stein, ma’am?”

The receptionist stared at the young woman over her reading glasses.

 “As I told you the last time you asked, the doctor is with another patient, young lady. Your appointment is for four o’clock.”

The older woman stared for a moment longer and then resumed her typing.

The young woman dropped her head, and her long, dark hair hung like a curtain around her face. She sighed and lifted her head, tossing her hair back in one swift movement. She gently touched the wide, pink scar that ran along the side of her cheek and winced.

Her wide, green eyes swept around the room, drawn again to the abstract painting on the wall. Tilting her head, she blinked. Her eyebrows knit with renewed interest of the painting, a jumble of squiggles, colors, and lines. She stood and crossed to the artwork. Bending closer as if trying to discern its meaning, the young woman raised her hand to touch a line of heavy, black paint that undulated across the middle of the painting. 

“Do NOT touch that, young lady!”

Startled, she withdrew her hand and returned to her chair, her cheek and neck flushed pink. The young woman smoothed the thin fabric on her thighs and pulled her matching suit jacket tighter around her body. Avoiding the sharp gaze of the receptionist, she picked up a worn People magazine from the side table. Thumbing through it, her leg bounced without meter. 

The soft click-clack of typing filled the air. Tossing the magazine, it slid across the table. She asked aloud, “Who cares about those people?”

The receptionist looked up, “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, I wasn’t talking to you, ma’am. Sorry.”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. A ringing phone interrupted her tacit reproach. The older woman answered the phone crisply and closed the small sliding window between them.

The young woman seemed grateful for the respite from the older woman’s disapproving glare. She leaned against the backrest of the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes. Alone with her thoughts now, the young woman’s cheeks flushed deeply and she swallowed several times. A lone tear trickled down her left cheek, following the line of the now-reddened scar. Her small hands gripped the armrests until her knuckles turned white.

A few moments passed, she opened her eyes, and surveyed the painting. Leaning in, her eyebrows pinched together. A question seemed to form in her mind. She cut her eyes to the busy receptionist, who was still on the phone, chatting busily with whomever was on the other end of the call. Abruptly, the young woman stood and stepped towards the image.

Once more, she put out her hand and forefinger, but this time she contacted the thick, raised line without rebuke. Not really black, it was a dark, reddish brown and smooth. In combination with the cacophony of other elements in the artwork, the line was vivid. She closed her eyes and a corner of her mouth lifted in a dreamy, half smile. The young woman then used her left hand to trace the tender scar on her cheek while her right hand continued to follow the painting’s bold line. She seemed to be comparing one to the other.

Dr. Stein opened the door to his office, but she didn’t move and her eyes remained shut.

He smiled, “Do you like it? It’s called the Harlequin’s Carnival, it’s quite old.”

A few seconds ticked by with only the sound of the receptionist’s voice behind the glass window.

“There is such beauty in the chaos, don’t you think?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head and nodded. The tempest within her now calmed.

He held out a manicured hand, “Are you ready, now?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Therefore I am...

I have removed those posts related to my novel (based on advice from other writers)... as I continue to work on it, edit it, and polish it...so there's not much on here to read.

I DO have a couple of short stories that came from writing prompts that I'll be sharing on here soon, since I've listed this as a place for people to see samples of my writing.

As the kid's say, "YOLO."

rj