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| KAREN ACKLAND has published short fiction and essays in Quarterly West, PIF, Dicey Brown, Salon, and elsewhere. She lives in Santa Cruz, California, where she also writes marketing materials for technology and small business clients. To read more of Karen's writing, visit her Web site at www.karenackland.com. |
| "breathing space" She tried not to let it bother her, but he always stood too close. She'd back away, taking miniature steps that weren't perceptible, but as soon as she achieved a comfortable distance, he took a single step forward and closed the gap. She excused their differences as cultural, and avoided passing his office. When they spoke, he stared at her chest. She'd move to his side, directing his attention to the paper she held in her hand, pointing out quarterly sums and percentage totals, but he shifted his position and resumed his downward gaze. She spoke quickly, with enthusiasm, but never succeeded in raising his eyes. One day she came to work without a bra. The left side of her silk sweater sagged over the now-smooth scar. When they met in the hallway, his gaze, unaccustomed to the empty space in front of her, dropped to the floor where it rolled up against her stiletto heels. Seizing her opportunity, she kicked the gaze into an open file cabinet and slammed shut the drawer. "Stop," he shouted as he rushed forward, tripping over a wastebasket. "What do you think you're doing?" She helped him to his feet, but made no answer. Now as his gaze wanders the dark files of uncollected invoices, the man follows the melody of the woman's voice. At noon each day they meet outside his office and walk together to the cafeteria. He enjoys a hot lunch, which she kindly cuts into bite-sized pieces. ### |
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