Erika Coetzee

Walking though imaginary doorways

She steps through the irregular frame. Inside, a bowl of jellybeans offers itself,
standing on a mirror-plated platform, rather gaudy and cheap. She grabs a handful,
secretly lamenting again how the jellybean scheme has already been taken
(as if there aren’t enough to go around). She walks into the tall open space,
where everyone must choose their own trajectory, find their own secret pathway,
via the big long-windowed hall. There are bright pop-art beanbags and shaggy rugs
flung on the floor, which seems to be made of melted plasticine. Making a pit-stop
at the inevitable bar counter, she orders orange juice with a twist of some rare liqueur
only the barman can pronounce. It comes in a tall striped glass, with straws that can bend
their heads. Two of them. Music wafts from the suspended speakers, something dreadful
with a name like bananarama. There’s a joke in the air, and its circulating. 

With a name like bananarama, there’s a joke in the air, and its circulating.
Their heads, two of them. Music wafts from the suspended speakers, something dreadful
only the barman can pronounce. It comes in a tall striped glass, with straws that can bend.
At the inevitable bar counter, she orders orange juice with a twist of some rare liqueur,
flung on the floor, which seems to be made of melted plasticine. Making a pit-stop
via the big long-windowed hall, there are bright pop-art beanbags and shaggy rugs
where everyone must choose their own trajectory, find their own secret pathway
(as if there aren’t enough to go around). She walks into the tall open space,
secretly lamenting again how the jellybean scheme has already been taken.
Standing on a mirror-plated platform, rather gaudy and cheap, she grabs a handful.
She steps through the irregular frame: inside, a bowl of jellybeans offers itself.

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