doing, not being.

i am washing my hands in a dark bathroom, the only light coming from a tiny window near the ceiling. it smells institution in here, faintly powdery with a hint of lemon and a strong cleanser that hasn't been used in several months. like old ladies at church. the gray cold of the rainy day outside lets me see myself in faded blue. i am surprised at the detail i can make out in this tiny, cinderblock room: my mascara has started to run, filling the tiny lines under my eyes with enough black to make them stand out.

i look old.

i've just returned from several exhausting hours of errands; the emergency room, the pharmacy, the bank. in contrast to the girl i had spent my afternoon with, i am fading, my paint is chipping, the cat has spent so many years rubbing his sensitive cheekbones against my sharp edges that they are dulled and filmy with residue.

we communicated slowly, loudly, with too many gestures and too little meaning. she catches my drifts very quickly. she's the sharpest so far, two years my junior, shockingly tiny once out of her heavy cloth coat. i dial a million phone numbers, explain things to doctors and translators and nurses and caseworkers. she sits patiently on white paper, examining the contents of the room with one good eye, legs swinging idly and one foot thumpa-thumping against the footrest.

i am not prepared for this, which is not unusual: there is no preparation in this business, only a ready smile (i'm told mine is winning) and a willingness to compromise. i'll get things done somehow, it will just take a little bit of chutzpah and a lot of creativity. i dial the number for the translator again.

this is the costume i wear on thursday afternoons. i am brisk and businesslike, in my dress casual clothes and tasteful heels, i know all the catchwords which will impress the importance of my task upon the people whose help i need. this is about the girl in the tight basketball jersey, the one who won't make eye contact with anyone, but who needs us to understand what she cannot voice.

sitting in my car, she disarms me. squeezed against the passenger side door, making herself as small as possible, she says nothing. stares out the window as 86th street passes by, more slowly than it should. her skin hums, i can hear it. she is electric underneath her timidity, taking everything in for evaluation before dismissing it as unimportant or storing it away for future use.

in the pharmacy, i wait with my legs crossed making pleasant conversation with the attractive man in his 50s who wears a blue boot on his broken foot. i lose sight of her again and again as she walks the aisles, picking up anything that catches her interest and examining all the words on the packaging.

when she comes to sit down beside me, i gesture and smile what is essentially, "isn't this a pain in the ass? wouldn't you rather be at home where it's warm, watching mtv?" she nods, rocking back and for in her chair, unable to sit still.

her skin hums, i can hear it. she is tiny, shy, and the toughest i've encountered so far. nothing has phased her, she has giggled at the translator and rolled her eyes at my inept questioning, known everything about her surroundings through the entire time i've been with her. i wonder if this quality is innate, or if something happened to make her so conscious. what it could have been.

her hair, cropped clumsily short, belies the sharp of her jaw and the smooth of her face - in that heavy cloth jacket, i would have guessed her for a boy if i weren't carrying her casefile under my arm.

back at the office, i say, "i like her. she's feisty." i can't explain it, i still can't. but those words are the truest yet. i am drawn to dynamism like the dog to her frisbee; i can't seem to get enough. everyone agrees with me. she's the office favorite.

in the bathroom, i consider my still-young face in the twilit mirror. i am so tired, my back hurts, and all i have done is sit for the day. the soap foams and bubbles over my wrists, leaving behind a softness and a scent i will smell for hours. something gentle and pink, like old ladies at church, with a papery grit to it that reminds me that my skin won't be this smooth forever. an odor vaguely pallid, greasy, worn smooth from use.

how overwhelmingly appropriate.