Dancing With Mrs. Brown
Espresso Fiction, August 1, 2008 http://www.EspressoFiction.com
The interviewer entered the gray room, slid the chair from the folding table, set his recorder down, and crossed his legs.
"Mrs. Brown, thank you for meeting me today." He scanned her bird-like figure. "Are you comfortable?"
Her shoulders lifted and relaxed with a heavy sigh. "Don't matter too much if I am, do it?" Mrs. Brown's eyes focused on his, pulling him into their depths. "I on the edge right now. No turning back. But I fine." She leaned into the table. "Ask your questions."
He cleared his throat. "Yes, Ma'am." He shuffled some papers he drew from his satchel. "Yes. Okay."
She continued to look into his face, gaze steady.
"Ma'am, you've been here close to eighteen months?"
"Yeah, that sound right." She brushed her forehead with her palm, returned her hand to her lap. "Feel longer."
"How do you feel? About tomorrow night?"
She took a moment, looked up toward the tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. "I feel all right, I guess." She continued to stare at the light, the clouds moving across the sky breaking the sunlight into morse code.
A few minutes passed. He looked down, smoothing the edges of the notepaper, and they curled up again. He pressed them down firmly, considered folding them under. They popped up again when he lifted his palms and set them flat against the tabletop.
"Mrs. Brown? Would you like to tell your story?"