Pure​

 

Matthew woke, feeling dazed, heavy and hollow.

 

He’d dreamt of women’s feet placed in water tubs filled with carp-like fish that nibbled on dead skin for a spa

treatment known as a “fish pedicure.”

​

After showering, Matthew shuffled into the kitchen where, even with the windows open, the oppressive, breathy heat made him feel as if he were being held in the mouth of a giantess.

 

Though he wasn’t hungry, he ate half of a protein bar and downed a cup of coffee before taking I-65 North to the office, where, once at his desk, he found himself painfully distracted.

​

He needed to focus.

He needed to work.

​

Instead, he only stared at his computer monitor as if seeing through it, thinking of the thousands of active satellites in near earth orbit. He thought of the cell towers that spiked-up from the landscape and of the stretches of fiberoptic cables laid across the sea floor.

 

“How’re you feeling today?”

 

A woman’s voice from behind.

​

He swiveled in his chair, turning to see Marybeth from HR. She had a habit of doing this, wandering around the

office, intruding into people’s concentration.

​

“Hey Marybeth. How’s it going today?”

​

He was seated. She was standing. He felt supplicant, at her mercy.

 

“Oh, Matt,” Marybeth said, her voice saccharine. “I asked how you were feeling.”

 

She wore a pink pencil skirt, her lips candied in matching lipstick. Her blonde hair like a halo around her head.

​

“Yes, of course,” Matthew said. “I’m well, thank you.”

​

“I’m happy to hear that, Matt. I was just poppin’ in on you because you didn’t accept the calendar invite for today’s

Sexual Harassment Training.”

 

“That must have been an oversight, I do apologize. I'll take care of that, now,” he said, turning to his computer.
 

“No need,” Marybeth said. “A verbal confirmation is adequate. So I’ll see you in the conference room here shortly, then?”

​

“Yes, thank you, Marybeth.”

​

“My pleasure, Matt.”
 

It irritated him that she shortened his name, calling him "Matt" in that overly-familiar way of her’s.

But when it came to Marybeth, he was willing to be "Matt."

​

He then set to work writing a Python script to automate some of his spreadsheet functions, clicking and clacking on his keyboard until it was time for the HR training, where, after filing into the conference room, he took the first-available seat between Jane, the red-haired intern and Richard, the overweight Project Manager.

 

“Alright, hello, everyone,” Marybeth said enthusiastically from the front of the room once all had been seated.

​

WELCOME TO SEXUAL HARASSMENT TRAINING the first Powerpoint slide read.

​

“Hey,” Richard hissed, pressing his elbow into Mathew’s ribs. “'Sexual Harassment Training?’ Really? It sounds

like Marybeth is going to train us on how to sexually harass.”

 

Marybeth was radiant, lit golden, there, next to the window.

​

“Now, this is a rhetorical question,” Marybeth began. “But how might you feel if a coworker requested a sexual favor?”

​

“Horny,” Richard whispered at Matthew.

 

Growing up, Matthew’s parents had hidden the JcPenny’s catalog in their closet, lest the tame photos of women modeling modest braziers in the "intimates" section provoke any in lust in his adolescent mind.

​

Marybeth talked in an animated, cheerful way, detailing the sorts of behaviors, words and requests that constituted sexual harassment, advancing the Powerpoint slides until, it was time for the final module: DOCUMENTATION.

 

“So, it's important to document any incidents of sexual harassment,” Marybeth said musically. “Do you know where you might send a written incident form?”

​

Richard leaned over and whispered: “Yeah, 'Penthouse Letters'.”

​

Matthew couldn’t help remember when, around age 13 or 14, he and his friend Luke, had discovered a water-damaged issue of "Penthouse Letters"  that had been discarded along Fry Road.

 

Dear Penthouse Letters, I never thought it would happen to me.

​

The training had filled most of the day, such that, at its conclusion, it was time to leave. And so, after grabbing his lunchbox, Matthew took to the stairs rather than wait for the elevator.

​

After an hour-and-a-half in stop-and-go traffic, Matthew was happy to flop onto the couch immediately upon his return home.

​

He then powered-on on the TV and began to stream the reality show “Naked and Afraid.”

 

After a few episodes, he clicked over to “Love is Blind."

 

He ate a frozen Mac n’ Cheese dinner and sipped exactly two-and-a-half beers before flipping to the 11 o'clock

news which featured footage of a car, spun-out on the interstate, smoke rising ominously from it's crumpled

hood.

​

After a few minutes, he turned off the TV.

 

And after brushing, flossing and washing his face, Matthew slipped into bed and sank into a troubled sleep.

 

While he tossed and turned, he dreamt that he alone had been alone tasked with closing the spa.

 

He went about his duties until each station had been cleaned and fully stocked.

 

After putting the deposit in the safe, he began to pull the carp-like pedicure fish from the water tubs, dropping them, one-by-one, into a plastic zip-loc bag.

​

Bag in hand, he turned-off the lights, locked the spa door and, upon returning home, he began chopping the fishes' heads off.

​

He then cleaned the fish and dropped the slender slices of flesh into the frying pan.

​

Growing up, Matthew had been implored to “be on fire for Christ.” But, at the time, this call-to-action tended to induce thoughts of spontaneous human combustion, self-immolation and the charred flesh of arson victims rather than religious zeal.

​

And this was just one way of getting closer.

​