Dorothy Hobson

                                                                                                                      © Lanikins 2011

Dorothy Hobson waited in a corner. The scent of hair-spray was heavy -a cloud of sticky, sickly-sweetness that circled around and never left her side. It made the air oppressive. She patted at silken strands of strawberry hair and her eyelids fluttered uneasily. Her fingers were worried, twisting and fumbling and crawling over each other. She just wasn’t sure what to do. She had spent the morning busy with her measuring-tape, examining the distances between various objects in her home. Hours had passed, but everything was sorted now. Perfect, in-fact, touch wood/touch wood/touch wood. The only problem was; she had backed herself into a corner. She could not move. Her toes tickled, because they knew full-well that even the slightest shudder could disturb the equilibrium.

            Then everything got worse.

The doorbell rang.

What was she going to do? Her sporadic hands began to fiddle with her dress, smoothing folds and tugging at creases. Tap, tap, tap. Ugh! Why was this visitor so impatient? They would just have to wait while she figured out what to do. If she took two steps to the right, and then one forwards -no, that would block the flowers’ light source. She couldn’t do that. If only she could escape diagonally. But the floor was a chessboard, everything was aligned and set in place, and Dorothy Hobson was not a bishop. What about, one step forwards, two to the left, and then another one forwards. Checkmate. That would get her there. Touch wood/touch wood/touch wood.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” but her timid voice did not carry far.

 Chest heaving, she reached the front door. Through the glass she could see the blurred outline of an impatient figure gazing off into space. She carefully opened the lid of the hand-sanitizer to a ninety degree angle, and tipped an impressive amount of the contents onto her hand. Rubbing her fingers rhythmically together, she reached for the door-handle. Her hand snapped backwards. She reached again, two fingers out-stretched, and tapped the handle twice.  Then she opened the door, forty-five, ninety, one hundred and thirty five and finally one hundred and eighty degrees. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she looked up at the delivery-man.  

 Richard Parkinson stared down at the petite woman in front of him. She was panting like someone who had just undergone something painful, and he noticed that she clutched the door-frame tightly. “Are you alright, miss?” he said, eyebrows gathering tightly on his forehead. She didn’t respond but opened her eyes wider and let her tongue pass along her teeth. He noticed the dress she wore was pure white, and near-blinding. It had a lace collar and a lace hem, and was in flawless condition. Her pink toes were bare, nails neatly cut into tidy lines. “Are you Dorothy Hobson, miss?”

Nodding, she reached out her right hand, and shook his left. Then she extended her left hand, and shook his right. Dorothy reached for the sanitizer again. This man was rather handsome, she thought, rubbing her fingers together, noticing the way he noticed her. She tried to smile but her face only contorted, and her neck ended up sinking like a turtles’ as her shoulders rose defensively.

“Here’s your parcel,” he said, jerking an arm out towards her. Flinching slightly, she reached out, two fingers extended, and tapped the parcel twice. His head tilted as she snatched the package away.

“Thank you,” she said, managing a sort of half-smile. She hoped that he would leave soon, she desperately needed to wash her hands. He looked like he was about to go. Touch wood/touch wood/touch wood.

“I just need you to sign here,” he pointed at a small rectangle on a sheet of paper, watching as she slammed her fist into the door-frame three times, his hand went to his shirt-pocket. He grimaced. “Sorry, I must have left the pen in the van, do you have one on you?”

“The pen’s in the van, the pen’s in the van, the pen’s in the van,” as she turned around, intending to collect the one she had lined up on her desk this morning, her heart stopped. There was the maze, the life-sized chessboard. Staring at her. Watching. Daring her to move. Her fingers began to twitch again, and the familiar tingle returned to her toes.

“Miss?” Richard began.

Dorothy whirled around, eyes feral, lips curling. “Go away!” she shouted, “I can’t help you!” she threw the parcel towards him and slammed the door. After tapping the handle twice, she turned back towards the labyrinth. Thoughts jumbled and muddled, she began to tap her feet, and squirted hand-sanitizer over her palms once again. This kind of thing had happened before, of course. Today’s conversation had run smoother than one with her last visitor -she had tripped over her words and ended up in tears. One time she hadn’t even made it to the front-door. Perhaps her condition was improving. Perhaps she was getting better. Her fingers bunched into fists, as a hot river rolled from her eyes, and she thumped the wall three times. Touch wood/ touch wood/ touch wood…