The smell of bleach the strong antiseptic chemical smell assaults me as I enter the storeroom. Old dirty mops crusted with sand and dog hair line the walls. A whisk broom- with missing teeth and an old plastic dustpan sit on a shelf blanketed by the dust of disuse. A few rusty paint cans are stacked up near the door- the lids in various stages of engagement. The utility sink reeks of the men’s room on the other side of the wall, the pipes hanging on to the memories of earlier visitors.
A mouse runs in the door behind me and disappears into its shelter hidden behind the trash in the corner. A spider web surprises me as I head towards a small table at the back, my oasis during a hectic day. I sit back in the old office chair which scoots backwards as I touch it, just an inch or two, but enough to remind me that it is on wheels and I need to be careful and remain aware when embraced by the rickety arms. A barren lightbulb hangs from the vaulted ceiling but there is enough soft light from the skylight to comfort me.
I close my eyes and clear my head, trying hard to shut out the sounds from the 2nd floor and the traffic from the street below. I wonder if my dogs peed on the wood floors while I was at work today. What do I want to eat for dinner? Did I bring chap stick with me- my lips are dry and I can’t relax.
Break time is never long enough.
©2009 Sharon J Corrigan