Her Number One Wish

She feels indignantly enslaved to the grey subtitles, but other than that, she has no response. She tells God one night that she made a mistake. She wants the ability of Sherlock Holmes to infer the future through literary clichés and common plot courses by her own volition, not to sit and read the grey lines a foot ahead of her. God doesn’t answer. Perhaps she’s telling her that she doesn’t have a choice. A born gift is a gift.

And so, she sits there, staring unblinkingly at the subtitles as everything seems to be slow around her.

Today’s breakfast is coffee and toast, the subtitles announce. She takes step after step, alternating between left and right. She suddenly thinks of the slow waltz she heard yesterday and steps according to the beats. She’s dancing to the waltz, the subtitles declare.

One – two – three. One – two – three. One – two – three.

The world is slow in its steps. The subtitles not only announce her future but also describe her actions as well.

As the music rotates like the delicate ballerina on a music box, she sits down, drinks tea, and eats a slice of cheesecake.

She puts on her clothes as indicated by the subtitles – the manager loves grey. She ought to take the grey tie - and step onto the subway. Her hand reaches up to grasp the handle above her head, the third counting from the right.

She prepared her speech yesterday – tomorrow her colleague will be late, and so she will be given the chance to present – and is reciting it slowly, word for word in her head, but the music of the waltz slowly infiltrates the precise words, muddling them into the swish and swirl of a dance rhythm.

Bum…bum-bum. Bum…bum-bum. Bum…bum-bum.

She sits down on a seat as a woman leaves. The grey lines blur slightly. Then they spell out her death.

They mesh together again. They separate again.

She shouldn't be able to see this again. Margrave, you’re fired!

She sits there, staring unblinkingly at the subtitles.