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Yellow lights. Green aprons. And each one is a contestant. Small talk. This one is looking forward to her daughter’s birthday. That one will attend. The agent across from me glances up from her book, almost about to say something. I ignore her and smile at the dancing micrographs I am shown. I guess at where they come from, the Chilean franchise? The one on my left smiles at me, “buen oído,” she says with a hint of skepticism. I can tell she wants me to say something to the effect of honesty, that I had worked for Intek. That I was stationed in Santiago for the better part of five years via Alkemik. Poor girl has no idea why I am even sitting in this chair. Why she has been assigned to me, to anyone that sits in this room.
During that time I would have explained that I wanted to try my luck as a grower, that I was indeed lucky at my variants, and my leaves were being sold to the elite of the world. Which they were. It was a brilliant set up. I had accomplished the first objective, to be a face, with such ease it surprised everyone. I would have then handed her a taste. And she would taken it. In that life I could have her home with me inside of ten minutes, inside of her. A bonus! No use for a name. Maybe I would have made one for her. I would have suggested we get a coffee, after which I would have taken her home. And I would wake up alone, the way I liked. The way Intek advised. Knowing the neighborhood through chit chat, the only way to do it without being marked. Still.
Seems forever ago. It was.
Eight-Seven, they call.
I am brought back from memory to this waiting room, yellowish walls and portraits of beaches they send you to to decompress. Before I could think, I say yes to a preparatory massage. Fuck. How much is that going to cost. My shirt is taken; immediately embarrassed I check to see if that girl is watching. This damned scar. But she has gone already. I am alone with a green-aproned red-haired, fair-skinned woman. Her accent gives her away. Thank fuck she doesn’t say a word about the mark. Walking behind me, she hums and rests her hands on my neck. Familiar harmonies. It melts my remaining fear. And I fade, too fast to protest… What is this, bliss or oblivion. No more yellow. Black incoming and silence.
I dream.
She looks like my fantasy in f minor. Is that Emily? Fading again. She looks like my sister when I found her crumbling, falling tears over the realization that letting go hurts. Her eyes catch mine, smiles an innocent smile and goes back to reading her book. A tear drops to the page and she wipes the page with her sweater. I try to make out the title, but can make out only a worn red binding. I raise my hand to reach for her face. She grabs it, whispering: I will be alright. Go home. The humming. I turn around.
I realize I can’t. I don’t want to. The clock strikes one, pressure, walk towards the door. I have a meeting. With who? He is on the bench outside. Waiting. Always waiting. Emily. But then she is gone.
And I wake up in Joni’s arms; black sheets and a racing heart.
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