Sheila’s bag was large, of thick tan leather, with floral embroidery. It went everywhere with her, including Dr Kirline’s office. The bag was large and sturdy enough to provide protection from the unknown, a role it was currently performing, sat on her lap as the doctor spoke.
Dr Kirline was – and Sheila wasn’t sure of exactly the right words here – a brown man. He was explaining in soft tones how the protocols worked, and the risks inherent in them. Sheila wondered if his god was her God. Or if his god had an elephant’s head, or lots of arms. Her thought process uncomfortably changed course, like a rat hitting a maze cul-de-sac.
There was a backpack apparently, that she had to wear. It was black and ugly. Couldn’t she put the contraption in her tan leather bag with floral embroidery, she asked? Dr Kirline smiled and said she could, as long as the wires reached the electrodes. Her dishwashing hands whiteknuckled the thick tan leather. She was going to be late for brunch with David.
Dr Kirline was talking about the stories in the news. The ones about the institute and that poor girl, the bald one who jumped. Sheila made empathetic cooing noises until Dr Kirline looked serious and told her that there were other forces at work, that wanted to besmirch the Institute’s reputation, and he wouldn’t let that happen.
But Sheila wasn’t worried. Like the tan leather bag with floral embroidery, she was resilient.
Like the tan leather bag with floral embroidery, she was practical.
Like the tan leather bag with floral embroidery, she was empty.