Nails (3.4)

Fragments of light do acrobatics across the surface of her Revlon red acrylics.

Clack clack clackclackclackclack clack. 

The pale meat of her fingers reddens at her dry knuckles and the back of her hand is sprinkled with sun spots. A pale gold wedding band cinches the pink flesh of her right ring finger. She has what her mother used to refer to as potato-pickin’ hands. 

Clackclackclackclack Clackclackclack. 

She pounds against her keyboard. The click of acrylic against the plastic keys has always seemed professional to her. In the next room the ancient fax machine creaks out a letter. The dull whisper of shuffling papers rises from the adjacent cubicle. 

Clack clack clack.

She’s had the acrylics since she was 22 and read in a magazine that they visually lengthened fingers. Every other Tuesday evening at 7:00 she has a standing appointment at the salon with Tammy, who she doesn’t like but who is admittedly the best beautician in Reno. 

Clackclackclackclack clackclack clack.

The soft electronic chiming of the front desk phone floats across the room. Someone somewhere is using a stapler. The hard clicking of her typing keeps the beat of this interoffice symphony. 

Clackclackclack clackclack clackclackclack clackclack.

She pauses, rolls the sleeves of her brown turtleneck up, pushes the creaking roller chair away from her laminate desktop and stands up. She has to check something with Trudy at the front desk.

….

In the next cubicle over he silently thanks God for the relief, however small and temporary, from that hellish clacking.