Christian Antonini

white. It is freckled with brown spots like the hand of an aging woman. Piles of sand and soil clump together on the floor. Several inches of brown liquid have flooded the floor, concealing the tile below. The specs of dirt, which Tom had previously admired floating majestically through the air, no inch down the walls which are wet from condensation. Tom gently closes the door and pushes the black button. A loud blaring sound emerges from the other side of the door, whirring and screeching and crying. Then, silence. A light creeps out of the slit between the door and tile floor. Looking back into the room for a moment, Tom sees the room has returned to its pristine, ivory state. The specs are gone and the mounds of mud have vanished. The room is once again consumed by its polished sterility. Tom squints his eyes, blinded by the glaring white. Sighing, he fastens the door shut. Tom treads away from the room. Something seems wrong. For Tom, something always sees wrong. At least he’s clean.

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Christian Antonini