Machines

The building has gone dark.
The ringing of telephones has ceased; the seamless layer of voices has lifted and with it the insistent clicking and tapping and scratching and the hurried patter of feet that don't have all day to get where they're going. Its age seeps like an aura around it, timeless and towering - as deeply rooted beneath the street as it reaches above. And it's just the hum, now. The soft, mechanical whirr of large machinery. It was there throughout the day, beneath it all, smooth and constant and indistinct like sand beneath the foam-tipped waves - waiting, with infinite patience. And though it rises now from the deepest depths, and the air truly vibrates with it, the ears of any within have tuned it into the background; it has become like the sound of their own breathing: a constant and comforting reassurance that everything is continuing, synchronized.
And there are ears, all around. For within the very hour at which the noise and stress and drive left its phones and keyboards and shuffled out the door on tired feet, a subtle crossfade had taken place. The sun left the sky and the moon slipped quietly in among the stars; so, as the large machines took quiet dominance, came from out of the woodwork those few who know the rhythm.
Click
Another gear shifts into place among the set.
Click-click
Somewhere, a lever. Clockwork mechanisms come together like soldiers falling into step. The sound is growing, now, and through the pressing dark, dim patches of fluorescent light from high above reveal the sharp, shadowed contours of a grand and flawless dance.
Driven by its own tireless motion, it pushes onward. It gains speed. A series of gears becomes a figure in blurred copper. Pistons plunge in and out of their hydraulics more rapidly than the eye can follow, and all at the limit only of well oiled joints and hand crafted bearings - a limit which it has not yet even neared.
No cause for alarm. It won't go faster than it means to; it won't slow down, or burn out; nothing shall move unless it was meant to, not on their watch. With calm and dignified respect, even understanding, they wait. Just the few of them, perfectly still. Holding the balance.

High above the churning, wires and insulation line the ducts that rush with air and water below the thin layer of wood and carpet. The mechanical music is diluted into a distant roar, a pulsing at the back of the mind. It is the steady four, set against the subconscious swing of her hips in soft syncopation.
Deliberate footfalls mark one and three. The delicate brush of her skirt about her knees, she does not notice; nor the feminine sway at her waist that causes it to gyrate, ever so slightly. This tuneless music fills her. She walks as she had when her feet were wrapped in sneakers and half-shrouded by loose jeans, on grimy sidewalks in the heat of a record-breaking summer. She had gone to learn the way, and had let the walk find itself. Wrists turned toward the sun before her, palms extended - a barely perceptible gesture. The world had been so colorful, the air thick and tangible - everything  tangible, and so alive. She soaked it all up, trusting her feet to strike surely against the ground, and now each time she casts a leg out, another step is ready to carry her in perpetual motion. Suede heels make a sound against the carpet like a cat's paws on tile.
The memory of sun on pavement hangs somewhere behind her, now. Thick rain blankets the city, muting the urban cacophony that rages on even at this hour. The quiet dark of the old brick building is a sanctuary, without the eerie silence of a structure abandoned. Short hair and waistcoat soaked, the wet hem on an otherwise dry skirt peeking out from beneath it: she has left the outside where it belongs, and accepts her state, allowing herself to be humbled by the orchestrated white-noise and silence. In the back door, down the unfinished hall, around to the left and through the office made maze-like with cubicles; a nondescript metal door opens into the maintenance halls. All cement and painted guidelines, here - no need for showy decor. This is the way to the stair.
She can almost find it easier in the dark.

Reviews

[Adam Greenfield]

This is spectacular. There are some really fantastic descriptions in here: "smooth and constant and indistinct like sand beneath the foam-tipped waves" and "the moon slipped quietly in among the stars" and "The memory of sun on pavement hangs somewhere behind her, now." (my favorite!)

I really enjoyed this piece and would love to read more when you post it. Great stuff!!!