by Sylvia Ryan
Jaci looked around. Despite the fact that someone’s belongings were in the apartment, no one had come home. She went into the bathroom, brushed her hair and teeth and washed her face.
The dark hair and brown eyes looking back at her in the mirror illustrated the lack of genetic diversity she offered the world. Weariness and misery faded her features. She expected to look different, uglier. She felt uglier, smaller somehow, but she looked the same as always.
A half laugh, half snort of despair shot out of her. Eyes closed, Jaci bowed her head in defeat. Tears welled behind her eyelids, preparing to escape. When she opened her eyes, a steady stream wet her cheeks and her nose began to run again. She grabbed a tissue for now and one for later before walking out of the apartment.
Herds of people crammed the hallways, socializing and laughing. Most of the apartment doors were open, letting sunlight filter into the corridor. Quickly, she walked down the hallway, looking at her shoes. She encountered slight brushes from the bodies of people who encroached in her space as she passed them. At times, it felt as if someone was actually trying to stop her. She didn’t look up. She didn’t want to meet anybody new right now. She was nauseated, physically ill. She couldn’t stop. She didn’t stop.
The transport was waiting for her when she got to the front entrance of the building. She climbed in and was relieved when saw she was the only passenger. She plopped down, this time out of earshot of the driver and rode the entire way with her head in her hands, still looking at her feet.
