CLARA, Pt. 4

“12 o’clock,” Elliot said, “Taking your lunch?”
Clara walked down the hall toward him. Her desire to stop at his desk struggled against the steady beat of her footsteps. She felt she was following, was controlled by the click, click, click, click. The space between Clara and Elliot closed and opened again. She had passed him.
“Your hands.”
She stopped. “My hands?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” She clutched them to her chest.
“No.”
“They must be a sight.”
“Not at all. I was just—“
“I’ll go wash them--
“--just going to ask if you would like to borrow my handkerchief.”
Her shoulders jolted upward and hung, suspended. Clara didn’t turn around. Spoke tentatively.
“I wouldn’t want to soil it. Elliot.”
His name on her lips tipped her tongue in gold.
“It’s really not a problem…Clara.”
“No. Thank you. I’ll just stop by the washroom. Thank you for noticing. For..informing me, of the condition of my hands.”
The first sound of her heel on the tile put that entire encounter in the past. Ten paces away she could finally expel her breath. Elliot’s presence was in that air, she thought. She wished she could hold it in her lungs forever.