The Corridor Continues Downhill

The green enamel cup holds water that never drops. I slide my thumb across the rim, feeling the cold weight of the cup. Down the hallway, the carpet gives way into a slope, the incline gentle but constant. I know someone waits for me, a quiet, attentive wait, like the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. At the end of the hall, the mirror sits on a small oak table. I step past it, brushing against the cool glass. The reflection shows the room I just left, the pale yellow walls, the salt-stained dresser bearing the date 1987. A child's shoe, bright red rubber, rests precisely where my heel was seconds before. The smell of old linen and wet concrete rises from the tile floor. I turn back to the cup; the water level remains exactly where it was, refusing gravity.