Anita gave a quick glance at herself in the closed rear Taxi window. An almost unrecognizable sigh escaped her, she'd done a good job with the makeup but still, she wasn't satisfied.
“Where to, lady?” the cabbie must not be having the best morning either.
“The Daily Grind, if you could,” Anita replied. The taxi sped away from the curb into the sea of horns.
"Can you wait here a minute while I get a coffee?" she needed a coffee this morning. The burnt thick coffee waiting at the office just wouldn't do. She checked her watch again, plenty of time. As long as Anita was there before the boss she'd be fine. She had to tell him about the calls in the night.
"Fine," the cabbie said. He hocked back a good one and spat on the ground as Anita turned away.
The coffee shop, The Daily Grind, wasn't crowded and the smell of roasting coffee beans filled Anita with a much needed moment of bliss.
"What do ya want?"
She hadn't made it all the way to the counter yet, but James - the mighty name tag declared - spoke loud enough to turn the heads of the few patrons in the shop. Her lips turned down in the way that causes frown lines. Anita coughed into as much smile as she could muster. "I'll have a caramel cappuccino, please."
"Want foam?"
Screw you, James! Just make the damn thing! She sucked that all back in with a sigh and held her breath.
"Well?"
A moment too long, apparently. She really wished he'd quit bouncing on his feet that way. Was that tooth pick rolling from side to side in his mouth really sanitary?
"Sure, thank you," Anita studied the big board behind the counter. She added and re-added her price plus tax, then, systematically, deduced how much cash she had; down to the penny, plus gratuity, of course. Oh, but her hands worked against each other. Why couldn't James just do his job. Probably a felon, best gig he could get. Especially with those eyes.
"Your change. Hey, your change here," he dropped the coins in her hand as if he couldn't wait to be rid of it. That was fine with Anita, she couldn't wait to be rid of him either.
As soon as the door shut behind her a gust of wind assaulted her from the left side. She turned head so that her chin rested on her right shoulder and held her coffee up high, as if in salute. The gust stopped as abruptly as it started. She ran her hands through her hair, mourning the loss of the curl she'd put in it. Matches my eyes now. This thought ceased to exist the moment it was born. From the corner of her eye a section of the corrugated fencing that flanked The Daily Grind caught her attention.
The Daily Grind had yards and yards of chair link interspersed with corrugated sheet metal fencing. No Trespassing, Keep Out, Under Construction: a myriad of signs adorned this fencing, along with all the other blocks around the city that are under construction on a fifty-year plan. Along with signs, these fences were the canvas for urban artists. Graffiti, from the crude amateur scrawling to the talented works of timeless import, covered mile after mile of this surface across the city. Anita passed by these fences on these streets, this street, countless times. When she first moved to the city the graffiti assaulted her. Almost blinding her, the colors and pictures on these fences and walls looked like decay. The rotting of the American dream spelled out here by the low of society. Much like anywhere else - the dirty close on the floor in the bathroom - the surroundings become almost invisible with familiarity. Anita didn't even see the litter in the street drains, the burned out buildings, and the graffiti splattered fencing anymore.
The particular piece that paralyzed her on the sidewalk in front of The Daily Grind was simple: nothing flamboyant here, nothing big and multicolored. In fact, the artist used only a portion of one can of flat black paint. In a stencil square about the size of a standard piece of paper an old fashioned silhouette, left facing, image of a male face stood out against the white wash thrown over previous works.
Anita didn't sway or stagger. She didn't fall to the concrete. She stood stolid in her business style high heels. Her hair swirled slightly around her face. Her eyes closed and darkness came. Dark behind her eyelids, sure, yet darker still behind her eyes. Darker inside her bones, her marrow felt dark like the void of space. From the ends of her hair to the ends of her fingers and toes she was the velvet darkness of a vacuum. Behind her belly button, the soft blackness turned warm. Radiating from her middle, behind the comforting heat, a sensation as if her body had gone to sleep and now tingled with pins and needles. This sensation concentrated with the most intensity in her midsection. There was pleasure in this darkness.
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