⠀ I was in a queue of thirty-three people. All dressed in black, we stood as
still as unfinished statues, balancing on sordid December snow, abandoned
and tarnished, crumbling beneath each step as we marched through wails of
running machines. Once inside the building no less colder, we got separated
by rows of narrow steel tables. I knew what was coming by heart. They will
bring us cart full of things without a moment to rest and we will lift them
up, choose the right sized box from beneath, fold, tape, stack, fold, tape,
stack, until the stack gets high enough to be taken away. I remember a row
of bent napes and their bulging spines. I remember a vague sense of imminent
rescue. But all remained grey and quiet. That’s when the tip of my finger
started to melt. They started to drip desultory like molten wax moments
before they harden, leaving its leathery residue over a box empty with
packing peanuts. But a voice booming with authority ordered me to continue
so I obliged. Repeating to myself, I must continue, I must, I must, I must,
each time with a smaller conviction. But bare were my fingers, they clacked
in vain with each attempt to lift a can of tuna into the orderly prepared
box. There was something all too comical about this for me but there was not
a single smile in sight. Still booming voice condemned me for slowing
everyone down. Ashamed, I left the building in a semi-transparent state. It
was four in the morning and everything that was inside of me was seeping out
as I walked. Leaving a trail of muck behind, I reached home around seven
o’clock. I prayed to be solid again but it only echoed within my now hollow
frame.