But she’d already hit send.

Muttering obscenities to herself, she hits compose, knowing that she’ll get a nasty reply before he gets to the second message...unless she’s really lucky...and proceeds to type in the title of this story, and in the little subject box, what she really meant.

Send. This is the problem with human communication. She files the notes she took during the team meeting. Sucks at the little string of blood welling from a finger. Too bad it’s also the solution. She gazes out the small window toward the parking lot, ruminates about line painters and how they live with themselves. Is it any easier when you blow it in real time? Do the words hurt more face-to-face?

The little machine materializes three spaces from the end of the lot; whiffs of yellow dissipate in the slight breeze. Man A sits twisted in the driver seat, throws a wave at Man B who signals rhythmically. Come on back. Rising slightly from his seat, A yanks on the left leg of his jeans. The little machine jogs momentarily until he settles back down into the black vinyl seat. The shoulder of B’s sweatshirt folds and unfolds. Folds and unfolds.

She counts the folds. Three. No, four. She lifts the window to hear them speak.

“You up for it?”

“Nah, not tonight. ‘My back far nuf?

“Yep. Go, girl.” B aims both arms toward the lawn in a gentle arc.

A’s backside curls over the seat of the machine. Two more lines to paint.

So that’s how they do that. I always wondered. That wasn’t precisely true: She had never thought about it before.

The yellow lines are laid down; A twists a key and climbs off his little machine.

“Real pisser last night...hey...that ain’t working...”

“That’s the way you do it...!” B laughs, shaking his head. Scratches his right pit.

Five folds in the shoulder now. But they know just what they mean.

“She stick it in yer face, man?”

A doubles over in a fit of burly giggling.

The fact that “she” probably did no such thing, she realizes, is beside the point. These few words are more than enough to answer her question. She quietly closes the window on the empty parking lot.

She logs on. Two messages download. The first, “Team Report.” The second, “Ignore other message.”

Copyright © 1999 Sarah Davis