The secretary (wo)manning the lobby of Carol Kohl’s office peers through the glass at me, and I see her hand feeling for a switch beneath her wooden desk. I’ve had that same watched feeling ever since I left the park. Maybe it’s residual ghost-sensitivity. I expect to find Stern, secreted away in every molecule of air, and at every turn. The lock to the door clicks, and I push through into a shocking wave of air-conditioning, my still-damp cutoff shorts sticking to my thighs. The walls are a drab gray, lighter than the carpet, darker than the secretary’s pinned-back hair and lipstick. The furniture in the waiting area is ultra-modern, expensive-looking. All right angles, sharp-looking edges. A small plastic sign next to the secretary’s computer says Jeanette; a giant Monet reproduction—smeary, blurry grays—decorates the wall behind her desk. “Hi. I’m looking for Carol Kohl?” I try not to fidget too much with my hands, but, momentarily overcome with self-consciousness at how wet and raggedy I must look in this neat, gleaming office, I try and stealthily smooth out the wrinkles in my wet tank top and reconfigure my ratty ponytail into a smooth(ish) bun.
What do You think about Notes From Ghost Town (2013)?
