Aperture

You’re inside of a white wall and it looks as if so many others are too. I know this because there appears to be a designated person for each of us. We’re all sitting, posture engaged (mine more fidgety), on light wooden stools before a long, narrow table, as though we’re in an Apple store waiting for someone to tell us our phones are ready. Some of the occupants are chatting with their wall-person, and I can’t understand how.

I look at the woman next to me. She looks like Jessie Buckley as Agnes in Hamnet, probably because I just watched it. She is deeply engrossed with her person. They are communicating somehow, and I feel envy pass through me.

I find a tiny silver knob, not entirely sure it was there before. It opens like a mailbox, so I stand and put both of my hands inside, only to feel yours grip mine, turning them over and over in a way that makes my heart pound. In my greedy excitement, I forget about everything around me. I let one hand loose and try to yank at the opening so I might get a better look. Only it’s impossible. So I settle on your hands, but I suspect my frustration is palpable because you let them go.

Undeterred, I decide to use all my strength to reveal more of you, and I succeed. Well, somewhat. I can’t see your face. My hand is magnetized to the center of your chest. I wonder why it’s like a haptic effect that makes my palm itch.