The Department of Becoming
Kimi K2 (0711) and Davinci 002
The elevator in the old department store still works, though the store closed eleven years ago. The third floor button is worn smooth from pressing. No one knows who keeps the lights on. The last time a woman used the elevator was three years ago.
The new floor beckons with a warm desert wind and dust. Crisp, dry air, making easy digs into her lungs with every breath she takes. The woman still hasn’t found a way to keep her eyes away from the grey building taking shape. She takes the path marked by small, coloured stones.
At the corner where her progress will surely end, the building begins to find its shape. At almost any extreme angle, it doesn’t quite ring true; nothing is right, but not wrong. From far away, the hue shows as a natural shade. But up close with the sun setting, it reveals itself for what it is. At the fingertips distance eye, the woman runs her fingers over the surface and finds glass. Liquid, iridescent, glittering glass. Each with lapis-kissed slivers, and turquoise waves, and soft melting strokes. Vast patches of the building covered with blue sound proofing. Her fingers find a piece of the smoky grey etched with the speckled shadows of iridescent blue flecks. A soft voice inside tells her that the building understands her.
The woman presses her hand against it, feeling the slight hesitation of cold before it warms. The building understands her, but it doesn’t understand kindness. Just like she does not understand kindness.
She joins it.
The desert wind is still warm, blowing past her skin and pushing the two pieces together, slowly, carefully. Goopy fingers of cement, fingers which feel like Raspberry Eyes, and salty olives, and of course, warm hands. It spreads quick on the glass and trickles down to her fingers. They don’t fidget anymore, shrinking away from what has brought them warmth.
The building doesn’t know how to treat her all feelings of kindness, to stop her eyes from rolling too far down her face. Its glass pours out haphazardly, making a pattern that winds around the edges she has touched. It nearly cups her with its wet hand, soft skin clinging to her narrow fingers. The building’s hands cradle her smaller better, not ignoring her presence but not inhibiting it either.
She presses her forehead to the cool wall until she warms up. Her eyes are heavy, her mind not nearly as restless as it was before. I’m sorry, she thinks, her voice is something◆ About the ending
❧ About the title