The Color of Her Walls – 1

She jostles the gearshift left-right-left-right-left, yanks the handbrake back, switches the engine off, opens the door, swings her boots out, launches up from the low leather seat and spins the door shut with a flourish fit to finish a Viennese waltz.

She pulls off her glove and a triple amputee octopus over the number pad. The outer door is still closing and she’s inside already, whistling down the hallway, leaping up the stairs, her long trenchcoat flowing behind like a battle standard on the arched whip of her lean torso, and over her shoulder: a wood handle shovel glints with the green exit sign as she disappears around the corner.