As she watches the blonde clop away on her ridiculously high heels, the woman seems to shimmer in the air, something else just barely visible…a man? Then it’s gone, he’s gone, and so is the woman, the inner office door snicking shut behind her.
She’s looking, bewildered, at the foreign desk top when the shimmering starts again – just behind the phone and the pen-and-paper-clip caddy, other things look like they’re fighting to become solid. Her university mug full of pencils and Sharpies, her photo of herself and her husband at Cabo San Lucas, her son’s graduation picture, the back of the nameplate she’s had for years, the one with the correct name on it, her name, not this Marilee Whoever. She has the absurd idea that if she could figure it out exactly, she could cleave this odd reality right off the top, to reveal her own reality hiding just underneath.
Or maybe she’s just having a stroke.
This is a Six Sentence Stories installment. The cue was “cleave.”