Clouds open like envelopes. My fingers touch a damp sponge to white. I have limited time. Water trickles down my neck. Water pounds on the rooftop. The skin around my nose is hard to paint. I press the sponge more firmly to my face. The mirror is a dirty rectangle. My nostrils are two dark O O s. I run water over my fingers. The basin is speckled with white. I click the powder case closed. I rest my elbows on the sink. With a thin brush, I draw a black heart on either cheek. My hands are shaking. The brush clatters to the floor.

I look at myself.

The perimeter of my face is softened. My mouth is a nondescript line. The cubicle is small. A toilet gurgles. I bend forward and turn on the cold tap. I press palmfuls of water to my face. I scrub it all away. My skin stings. Water soaks into my thin vest. I strip it off. The rain continues to pound. I press my face into its material. Someone enters the bathroom. Quietly, I pick up my makeup brush and place it in my clutch. My shirt is hung on a hook. I slip my arms into its pale fabric and do up its buttons. It clings to my torso.

I pat my hair and unlock the door. The skirting boards are lined with dirt. The ceiling is made from thick, mottled glass. My lunchbreak expires. The woman flushes. I quickly make my way through the fast-food restaurant. The rain is slowing. White aspens line the street.

*

Our office is on the eighth floor. The lift pings as its doors open. I step out onto thick carpet. I curl my fingers. Paint lingers under my nails. A colleague approaches me. His suit is grey. He presses a file to my chest and turns me, his hands on my shoulders.

‘The whippet is waiting for you,’ he says. He’s not joking. Our boss disappears around noon. She leaves her dog tied to her desk. Re-directed, I approach her office. He always finds an excuse to touch me. Droplets cling to windows. Printers whir. I place a palm on a heavy handle. I glance over my shoulder. He still watches me. His eyes are hooded. I enter her office.

The dog is half-asleep. Its ribs are a white corset, rising and falling. Her blinds are half-drawn. There is a sour taste to the air. I create a little room on her desk, and place down the document. I fuss over its alignment, until it’s perfectly centre. I glance out towards the street. The tops of the aspens are bald, even though it’s the height of summer. People move in tight clusters along the tarmac. Ash speckles the sill. The dog notices me. Its ears are bat wings. Sometimes she leaves it in the office all night. Cleaners arrive before the staff. I sigh.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ I say. Her walls are bleach-white, with a round clock that never ticks. The rain resumes. I let the door close heavily behind me.

*

The canal is a gritty tongue. I duck under a slew of branches. My trainers crunch against gravel. Plastic bobs in the water. I pause and stand near the canal’s edge. Confetti is strewn across the path. A wedding took place earlier in the pavilion. It sits, squat, in the centre of the park. I reach down and massage an ankle. I slipped earlier. The ground is pure grease. My breathing regulates.

Fists unclench and paper flitters. Tendrils of lace. A smile, wide and unashamed. I wipe sweat from my eyes.

Another jogger approaches. Her music sounds tinnily in the early evening air.

*

I take out the whites. My arm is weighed down by towels. I kick the washing machine door closed. I’m surprised at how many clothes she goes through. I never see her move whilst I’m around. I dump the load on a chair. Her fridge is bereft. I must remember to fill it. Sometimes she leaves me money by the kettle. I drag the clotheshorse towards me. She wears old yet pretty undergarments. Her t-shirts are soft to the touch. Sweat stains mar a few of the sleeves. The tennis tournament is on mute. There’s an issue with her television. It only shows things in greyscale. I glance into the living room. I see the rectangular scar of a tennis pitch. Her head is bowed. The walls are shrouded in shadow. If I turn on a lamp, she’ll flinch, or close her eyes.

I hang the towels over doors and chairs. I go upstairs. Her bedspread is patterned with grey roses. I connect her phone to a charger. Her curtains barely conceal the white streetlight outside. I pause in front of her dressing table. She used to spend so much time here. I rummage in a metal container. Her lipsticks are almost worn-out. I choose one and slip it into my pocket.

Her living room is dusty. I don’t clean in there. On her mantlepiece is a photo of the two of us at school. Long white socks. Our faces perfect circles. I don’t say goodbye.

*

The sun is a white bulldog. It sits high in the sky. I squint my eyes. My compact mirror glints. I perch on a closed toilet seat. My fingers are shaky. I’ve skipped lunch. I knead my knuckles into powder and then press them to my cheeks. My eyebrows are thin arches. White paint obscures their real widths. I put my face too close to the makeup. I inhale powder. I cough, which send more powder into the air. I bury my head into the crook of my elbow. I snort it out. My eyes water. A door swings open. Chatter enters the bathroom. It swiftly cuts off. The other toilet isn’t working. I hear shuffling on the other side of the door. I press my lips together. I quietly tug my bag towards me. My stomach creaks like damp wood. I snatch out my packet of baby wipes. I scrape three of them against my face. Against my cheekbones, again and again, under the nose, quick dips beside the nostrils, over and over my eyebrows, a cross pattern against my forehead, under my chin. I hear a sigh. I stuff everything into my bag. I unlock the door and hurry out, holding my blouse to my chest.

I don’t look at the woman. My shoulders are hunched. I go straight for the sink and splash cold water against my skin. I think she’s middle-aged. Her black shoes are square and ugly. I wipe my face on my arms, and then slide my shirt on. My fingers are out of control. They’re numb. They’re thin exclamation marks. I manage to do up a few buttons. I leave and tilt my face up to the sky.

*

I hold a Styrofoam cup and let coffee spill into it. The office is alive with tapping keys. I steady my wrist with my free hand. It fills to the brim, spattering a little on my sleeve. I forgot to press the option for milk. It becomes too hot to hold. There’s nowhere to put it. My colleague approaches. I transfer it to my other hand. His Adam’s apple is a baby’s fist lodged in his throat. Stubble lines his jaw. He’s much taller than me. I look down at the carpet. It’s the colour of fog. I feel my left palm heating up. He tells me our boss is in. I look up.

‘So, you’d better hurry,’ he says. He ate something tart for lunch. I can smell it in his breath. ‘Here,’ he reaches forward and slides a pen into my shirt pocket. Its lid overhangs the material’s lip. The pain is mounting in my palm.

I turn. The sun is eyelevel with the windows. I wince. Metal cabinets open and shut.

*

The hall is quiet. I call the lift and blow on my coffee. I recite one sentence in my mind, over and over. She likes it when I’m precise. I knuckle the lift button again. Its doors open. I hurry inside and stand in a corner, hunched over my drink. I touch the rim to my mouth. I close my eyes. Steam warms my face. I tilt the cup and swallow mouthfuls of scalding coffee. I moan a little. The lift ascends. There is a mirror nailed to its cubic interior. It distorts my reflection. The lift judders. I crush the cup to pieces. They fall, white and jagged. I arrive at my floor.

*

My boss isn’t in her office. Her dog is mute. I sit on the corner of her desk and bow my head.

*

The pavilion is aglow. Today’s wedding is over. Cleaners push large brooms across parquet. I check my pulse. The canal is low and flat. It’s overcast. We are in the thick of summer. Its roof is conical. White pillars support it. My trainers are worn. A stone bridge arcs over the water. It casts a shadow over the algae, so that its tunnel becomes a complete O. My leaving party was one month ago. Wine was drunk from plastic cups. Someone let the whippet run free around the office.

I bend my knee and stretch. Clouds float like shorn-off veils.

*

It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have encouraged her to wash. The bath is overfilling. Water seeps through the floorboards. I run upstairs. A tap gushes. I splash through inches of water and turn it off. I don’t know what to do. Pots of cream bob. In fact, lots of items have been set loose. She must have emptied her cupboards. I reach forward and pluck a ring from the debris. I slide it on my finger. I push back my sleeve and plunge my hand into the bath. It takes a few tugs to extract the plug.

I find a mop bucket and start scooping up water. I flush it away. I pour it down the sink. Pill jars gape. They were empty to begin with. Condensation creeps up the walls. It was the hot tap. She must have heard the thunder of water. Cottonwool circles float like lily pads.

I stand next to her. My trouser hems drip. A tennis player squats. Tendons stem his muscles. His shorts flutter in a breeze. I look at her. I’ve been looking at her for years. Bleach marks pepper her t-shirt. Her nostrils dilate. I place a paper bag at her feet. It contains her prescription.  Her body odour is strong. The frilled edges of her socks are greying. I reach over her knees and pick up the remote control. Her head turns sharply. I murmur a sorry. Her eyes are full of mist, like breath upon steel.

*

I am in-between. I am a blank moment. Paint smears against my cheeks. I am not me. I draw thin diagonals over my eyes. I press rouge against my lips. I’m on a cigarette break. My colleague is outside of the building. I dashed inside. I said I needed to find my lighter. I slap more paint on. I have five minutes. I can say the lift didn’t work. I kneel on the bathroom floor. The cubicle walls rise high above me. My fingers scrabble against useless content in my bag: pens, chewing gum wrappers, dirt. I find the kohl. My hearts have wobbly outlines. One on either cheek. I dip my fingertips in black paint and colour them in. Little tears escape my eyes. I need to rinse them. Paint from my forehead moistens them, blinding me slightly. I swear under my breath. The hearts run too. My forehead crumples and this doesn’t help. I need to start again. I need to peel the whole face off. A fine line zig-zags across my compact mirror. More paint enters my eyes. I push down the handle-lock and stumble into the main body of the bathroom. I fall to my knees. The overhead fan whirs. There is a woman by the hand dryers. I didn’t hear her enter. She works in reception. Her expression freezes. I smile widely. It’s a joke. It’s a joke. I hold onto the sink’s basin and pull myself up.

*

 The street is narrow. My court heels clip-clop. I sneeze into a tissue. My trousers billow. I’m hunting my boss. I’ve been sent on an errand to find her. She’s needed. Our CEO is in. I don’t know her haunts. I’m making pure guesses. I hold a leash and half-drag her whippet along. I’d hoped it might lead me to her. It hasn’t seen daylight in a while. Puddles glint. We avoid them as best as we can. Its matchstick legs hurry. It begins to rain. My blouse slowly turns transparent. This summer is a nothing. It is a not-meant-to-be. It wraps around me like a shroud. Damp hair clings to my neck. I bend down and scoop up the dog. It’s dirty paws scrabble against me. I pause. She isn’t here. This is futile.

Fingers of rain slide down my back.

*

The office kitchen is small. A kettle judders. Everyone is muted. Our CEO wasn’t happy. I bite the inside of my lip to keep it from wobbling. My blouse is still damp. I unhook a large mug. My colleague enters. Sweat patches darken his underarms. I move towards the fridge. Postcards of Europe decorate it.

Europe: white parasols, paella with tiny shrimp, historic stones.

Europe: glasses clinking, wide white beaches, gothic cathedrals.

I open the door. He stands behind me and reaches into the top shelf. His sandwich is wrapped in excessive amounts of cellophane. He touches the small of my back. I flinch.

‘Are you going to quit again?’ he murmurs. ‘That was quite a talking-to.’

I look at the pale light at the back of the fridge. The kettle clicks off. I wait till he leaves. Laughter sounds, somewhere by the photocopier. I pull open the bottom drawer. An odour slips out. I put my hand inside. My fingers pinch the stem of a pear. I slowly lift it out. Its body is mottled green and rotting. I carry it towards the bin and let it drop. It turns to mulch as soon as it hits the bottom.

My suitcases were all packed. My ticket was booked. I just didn’t go.

*

Low, unmoving, the canal wends beside the park. I left work early. I told no one. The pavilion is a husk. Flimsy chairs are scattered about in front of it. Deep-cleaning is going on. Strands of bunting lie tangled on the grass. Vacuum cleaners hum. Catering vans linger in the distance. It will be dressed up and polished by late afternoon. I wonder if there was a wedding performed there this morning. The sun is a weak smear in the sky. I quicken my pace. I narrowly avoided the receptionist. Her back was turned as I stole through the double doors.

Shadows speckle the water. The mud is soft beneath my feet. Veils are carefully arranged.

*

It’s the final. The pitch is encircled by people. An umpire sits up high. I strip off my blouse and trousers and wrap myself in a robe. Envelopes litter her door mat. I gather them up and enter her kitchen. Some of them contain thick wads of paper. Her late husband’s name is attached to hers by a thin hyphen. I tuck them in between two fruit bowls. Half of the kitchen table is covered in unopened envelopes. I scrape cement-like porridge off of a pan. Her freezer door has been left open. The meat will have to go.  A little while later, I perch on the coffee table in front of her. The game has progressed. Scores flicker at the top of the screen. She squints. I lean forward, holding a damp sponge. I daub white paint across her cheekbones, and then in the hollows where her cheeks used to be. She doesn’t move. I pat the sponge into paint and apply it thickly across her forehead. Wide strokes. I catch any dribbles with a tissue. Next are the arched eyebrows and the outline of her lips. I compensate for her lack of expression and draw a look of faint shock. I press red into and around her lips. My hearts are perfect. They could be moles. They could be dimples. I sit next to her when I’m done. My face is already made up. We watch the white ball move backward and forward, backward and forward.

---

Brigitte de Valk won the Cúirt New Writing Prize 2020 , and the Royal Holloway Art Writing Competition (2014). Her short fiction is published by Crannóg Magazine, Sans. Press, Happy London Press and Reflex Press. Twitter: @BrigitteCrossdV