Pictures of Passing Cars

The door closed tersely, and with piercing finality that rang out in the dim, gentle, golden and brown lit hallway, jarring its simple serene beauty for the split second the sound penetrated the dense, dust thickened air.  He pivots, raising one arm and resting his hand on his forehead, pushing his fingers through his hair and grasping it tightly. He steadies himself against the wall beside him with his palm, fingers spread out, resting lightly over the surface. Aware of all his movements, as usual, articulate and adaptable. He exhales, as he always does when in the midst of light and atmosphere such as this. His head grows clearer and his thoughts a bit lighter as he realized the significance of what has just betided him. He feels the beauty of the hall living on about him as he trembles and begins to collapse in on himself. Such a common notion, he feels this way often, and is not something he dreads. He welcomes varieties of pain, as he does any other mood and feeling, embracing it, flowing with it, finding the music of it. Making it less formidable. Letting it sweep over and through him so that he moves along side it…finding the process almost enticing, enhancing his soul and being.

In the hallway, slightly and gracefully arched, an emaciated figure lingers. The blend of vague and clear light that filters in through the opposing windows tinges his dark hair that droops in thick stands over his gaunt face that is shadowed by only small pieces of light grazing the raised contours. The light reaches out, emboldening the vague lines and deepening the shadows around his elegant features. The nest of his inky locks twist about in tangled masses brushing his shoulders, wild and unkempt. He attempts to push his long slender fingers further back into his hair, but finds he cannot. He lowers his arm slowly to his side, his hand coming to rest in a sturdy ray of light. He releases a long, laborious, shuddering breath that racks and his body as a whole, but his trembling ebbs away. He sways a little, and in turn presses his hand even harder against the wood paneling of the wall. He dares not glance back at the red door with the tarnished gold peep-hole that glints demurely in the evening glow, lest he should not have the strength turn around again. He lifts his head and readies himself to leave his wall. He focuses on his destination, the elevator doors that stand closed at the end of the darkening hallway that seems to lengthen with every step.  Butoddly, with every step he feels lighter and lighter, and all the other red doors on either side of him fall into his slight wake, which lingers merely a second or two. Meanwhile, the light is retreating, a shadow is moving behind the red door at the end of the hall, a deft finger is pressing the down arrow in a silent crescendo, and the click of a lock can be heard in the silent hall as the more familiar figure boards the rusting box. As the doors close with a conclusive thud, and the precarious machine groans downward three stories, the curious red door opens to a dark, empty hallway, the light having vanished with the one now stepping into the night. Like a wisp of fog, invisible, and leaving mo imprint upon where he happens to tread.