She ignored the picture of her ex-husband on the corner of her desk. Bianca typed and typed and typed, her fingers making quick with her work. After she finished her sandwich, she wiped the crumbs from her hands and turned to face her computer monitor. She was lovely to look at, wore the wet look well. Fortunately, Bianca was very good at her job. Her small office was filled with a dank smell that clung to her clothes for hours after she left work each night.
Above her, the ceiling panels had long rotted into something dark and unrecognizable. Later, at work, Bianca sat at her desk and ate a sensible lunch-a turkey sandwich with mustard, lettuce and tomato. A new stain slowly spread across the panel. A droplet of water on the back of her neck, then another. Bianca's muscles stretched away from her bones and she fell into a comfortable gait. She got on the treadmill, started running. There was a ladder beneath the empty space, an open toolbox. The dissolved mush lay in a neat pile on the floor. In the gym, one of the fiberglass panels had finally broken. Fat droplets of water fell on her forearm, her neck, her forehead, her lower lip.
Water stains, in darkening whorls, curling across the drywall or fiberglass panels, filling them with rot and mold.
