A Fragile Overnight Sensation

Every breath she takes is a small act of desperation. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him; he sits at the last table by the wall. Her food before her, she moves peas over here, shifts the grey, flavorless meat over there. She does not intend to eat this. She is the quiet one in accounting. She is aware of the cliché, “the quiet one in accounting”, but in this case, it is reasonable. He shovels his food in as if the only thing left is the chair and the executioner. This display of wanton hunger amuses her, and beyond that, she is utterly enamored of him.

Without her affection, he would be entirely alone. He is a remarkable sight, easily topping three hundred and fifty pounds and a hair less than five feet, he is both small and enormous at the same time. In her eyes, he is an apparition of glorious perfection. It is as if only she can see him at all. The rest of them, the lathe operators, foremen, sweepers, the lot of them, make great efforts to ignore him. He does his job (barely), and that is enough, no need to actually deal with him.

As for her, her anonymity is total. She works in pad number six, on the stamp press machine with the cracked bit. There is a running pool among the foremen as to when the bit will finally shatter. They all agree that when that day comes, they will blame it on her and use it as an excuse to let her go. But for now, she cranks out her 175 pieces a day, like clockwork, and no one pays her any mind.

She still drives the car her grandmother left her, the 85 Crown Victoria. It’s a tank, and she is almost completely obscured by the dashboard when she drives. Tonight, she will follow him home.

She waits just outside of the gates for him. Her radio is permanently locked on the AM gospel channel. She smokes generics and watches the gate for his Suzuki Samurai. Some woman on the radio is giving it all up for Jesus.

Out comes the Samurai. She lets a couple more cars pass, and then pulls in line. She keeps her distance. The radio implores her to go with Jesus, and to let the Lord’s love shine.

He pulls into a small, modest neighborhood not too far from hers. They drive past several small ranch style houses and then he finally pulls into the drive of a single story brick house in a horrible state of disrepair. Throwing caution aside, she pulls in behind him.

He opens the door, labors out of the tiny car (which rises several inches), and then turns, clearly apprehensive, and looks at her. She opens her door, and steps out. For what seems to her to be an eternity, they stand stock still, looking at one another. Neither of them moves. Finally, he turns and heads to the door.

She follows.

He unlocks the door and leads her into his home. The house is mess. Things are in utter disarray. There is no furniture in the living room, only piles of magazines, newspapers, and garbage.

He walks through the house, around the mountains of trash, covering his well-laid path of filth in the carpet. She is breathing heavily, trying hard not to appear too apprehensive. She begins to notice that she is somewhat excited, this experience so foreign, so vague. Sweat begins to form on her brow. They enter his bedroom. There are black sheets over the windows; no light gets in at all. In fact, the entire room is sheathed in varying shades of darkness. Without the small lamp on the floor beside his bed, it would be like the interior of some sort of subterranean cave.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and looks up at her. There is no emotion on his face. She is shaking. He removes his boots, and then removes his work suit. Beneath his suit he wears an under shirt and a pair of boxers. He leans back on the bed and looks at her. She removes her white work smock and drops it on the floor. She strips down to her threadbare underwear. She walks to the edge of the bed. He watches her. Neither of them makes a sound.

He then raises his arm towards her, beckoning. She slips down on to the bed and into his arms. They embrace. The sharpness of his sweat, the softness of his abundant flesh, all of this captures her, leaves her awash in warmth. He reaches over and picks up a remote. He turns on his stereo and plays the radio.

They lay in each other’s arms, silently, and both look up at the hole in the ceiling. All the while, the radio plays Billy Thorpe’s Children of the Sun.