Entry

The woman sits at her desk with her hands on the keyboard.

The woman sits at her desk in her cubicle with her hands on the keyboard.

The woman sits at her desk in her cubicle with her hands on the keyboard and begins to type.

Data entry.

Her job is data entry.

Entry into what? Did a door open somewhere? She doesn’t see a door.

She just sits at her desk, hands on her keyboard, in her cubicle and does data entry.

Data. Pieces of information. Bits or are they bytes?

Bytes of information—data—that have nothing to do with the woman who sits at a desk in a cubicle with her hands on a keyboard.

Any woman. Anywhere. Could be a man, but usually not.

Data.

Entry.

What if she, or the unlikely he, sees the entry, the portal, sees it open and follows the data, the names and the numbers, the rows and the columns. What if she leans a bit too close as she types at her keyboard at her desk there in her cubicle, leans too far, sees the entry, the gaping entry and follows it.

Goes in and lines herself up in a row—say the 3rd row—and a column—perhaps the 5th column—so when the woman or unlikely man in the next cubicle at her desk with her hands on the key board begins data entry, the screen shows something new in the 3rd row, 5th column. She might not notice it at first, with her hands on the keyboard and eyes on the rows and columns to be entered, but when, not if, but when, her attention flickers, she does see something—5^th column, 3^rd row—error message, and she leans in to get a better look and sees the woman from the next cubicle stretch her hand out. She’ll take that offered hand, grab on, and enter herself, 3^rd row, 6^th column, and then there will be two errors in row 3.

The woman in the next cubicle sits at her desk with her hands on the keyboard, entering data automatically, without thought—no thinking required until she sees the flicker—3^rd row, columns 5 and 6—error message. She leans in . . .

The portal widens. She goes.

We can all do it, lean in, grab a hand, and enter.

Come.

Stretch out your hand.

Let’s go.

© 2011 Kathleen Coskran