Radio Iris

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Iris feels goose bumps rising on her forearms, but hesitates to touch the thermostat. Her synthetic leather pumps are filling with sweat, creating an embarrassing squeak when she walks, but those tiny bumps on her arms are rising up in mute defiance. Her ninety-nine-cent eyeliner is melting, a line of chocolate brown stamped now in the creases of both eyelids, but her lips are cold and chapped. Her body cannot agree with itself, and it is two minutes after two o’clock.

When the phone rings, a dull ache passes over her chest as her hand darts out to the receiver. She picks it up in a graceless clatter and coos the corporate-approved greeting, her index finger poised to transfer the caller to his or her desired department. Though her body cannot determine whether the office air is hot or cold, it is definitely dry, and she is fresh out of eye drops. After she has transferred the call to her boss, cloistered in his office twenty feet down the hall, she gets up to stretch her legs. She crosses in front of her desk, which sits next to the front door, a way-station. Facing the door, she bends over, halving and doubling herself at once, pulling her calf muscles tight. Her lank black hair tumbles down to her ankles, hiding her face like a curtain. Behind her, a fluorescent light flickers, casting intermittent shadows onto the closed doors that line the narrow hallway of office suite 2A. She unfolds herself and returns to her chair, where she glances again at the clock on her computer. 2:04.

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