“I’m wearing longjohns underneath in case the tape quits, but I can’t walk around the office in them.”
“What do you do down there?” she asks.
“Roll and fold epic seismic printouts.”
“Sounds like a lovely pattern for a skirt – you have tape and scissors down there don’t you?”
The elevator doors open, but I can’t move. She’s right. So right my whole body tingles and my eyes start to water. I’ve made clothes before, even staged fashion shows – of course I can do this! The skirt is effortlessly designing itself in my brain. Ideation is a sparkling high I’ve spent too long trying to teach myself to live without. Somehow I let the world convince me that creation and imagination was valuable only when channeled for profit or praise. But this strange woman is speaking my truth, my own deep guttural soul truth, and the sky blue lettering on the glass doors at the end of the hall puts it into words.
“Are you coming?” she asks, and reaches to take the package with the same name.
“Anywhere you want me to go,” I answer quietly.
Her glowing pink smile flashes with understanding. “Wait by the stairs; I’ll be right back.” She disappears behind the frosted glass.
Up on the roof we stand side by side watching the ugly pants burn. She leans on the child’s red plastic snow shovel (handle wrapped in toilet paper and soaked in lighter fluid) that she’d used to light the hideous grey legs on fire.
“What else do you have down there?” I ask.
“How about I show you sometime.”
“I’d love that,” I say, keeping my eyes on the smoldering rags as my heart begins to thrill. “Thank you.”