"Parker's Days"

by Margene j. Guerrero

I.

Parker climbed the stairs two at a time
humming a song about fast cars to herself.
Her steps were smooth strides forward,
silent on the pebbled cement as she opened
the door to an empty hall. Shiny tiled
floors, speckled linoleum, reflected her image
as she pulled off her coat, a swish of heavy
fabric. Parker sketched on square sheets of paper,
fingers darkening with each stroke of the charcoal,
making the hall echo with a song about Ford Fiestas.

II.

Parker grasps a shiny steel lighter
loosely in one hand. Back and forth, back
and forth, she flips her wrist, one whipping
motion. The metal cover jumps as if struck by
invisible fingers, a sharp clink of noise and the motion
ceases. Parker snaps her fingers, dropping 
them to the wheel, and white yellow
sparks fan, a tiny fireworks explosion becomes
a bloom of light, of fumes flickering. Parker
looks at the flame and silently snuffs it again.

III.

Parker stood outside the door, her hand
poised to knock. She pulled back, a slow
intake of breath, and her hand came forward,
outstretched fingers resting silently on the cool, smooth veneer.
She looked over her shoulder at the hallway stretching out
behind her, a row of doors lining a narrow strip of carpet,
flourescent lights shining down on a 
scene she realized was becoming redundant.
One swift turn and she face the empty hallway,
one breath and she leaned against the door.

c. 1997