Colette Parris
Floored
December 30, 2022
“Oh heck no,” I say, upon sizing up my surroundings. We are standing on a small, round platform. A bridge, barely wider than a tightrope, goes left. A second bridge of equally improbable breadth goes right. My husband has been instructed to go one way, while I am directed to march in the opposite direction. There is nothing underneath either structure. Not water, not fire, not rocks. Just black.
My husband gamely ventures forth and begins fiddling with the broken machine that necessitated his fancy footwork. His snug, space-travel-approved helmet glints silver each time he nods in satisfaction over his progress. I tell him that when he returns, he can cross my bridge and repair the second machine as well. For the sake of mankind, of course.
The instructor’s voice crackles through my headset. “It’s okay. You can do this. Just don’t look down,” he croons, like I’m a toddler attempting my first slide.
“Nope. Totally can’t. This is a hard pass.”
Our virtual reality coach attempts–and fails–to smother a laugh. I consider whipping out my fire extinguisher and giving him the drenching he deserves, but elect to take the high road, if not the high bridge. (This is for the best–it turns out that I’ll need my extinguisher later when my husband is engulfed in flames during a drone battle.)
“Remember, there’s a full floor directly beneath you.” I look down again and tut-tut. He’s a liar. Still no floor. Only an abyss.
“Okay, how about this. I’ll take your hand.” I feel, but cannot see, a warm, solid hand encasing my right. My guide gently pulls me forward, and my rapid pulse slows. I manage, snail-paced, to traverse the narrow overpass and fix a wonky machine so that my distressed spaceship can continue its journey. Fifteen minutes later, having used my laser beam, rifle, and other devices to outwit various nemeses, space travel is safe again.
A debriefing follows. I am taken aback by my exhilaration upon learning that I’m a better shooter than my husband. The price of admission includes, for posterity, a video clip of me expressing exactly how I feel about catwalks.
We step outside the venue after promising to leave five-star reviews on Yelp and Google (an empty promise on my part as I am, was, and will forever be terrified of the Internet, but sincere on the part of my spouse). As we make our way back to our vehicle, the winter-yellow sun and greige suburban sidewalks initially seem more foreign than the inky, angry-android-infested habitat we left behind. While pulling out of our parking spot, my husband tells me that the virtual reality escapade was one of my better Christmas gifts. I grace him with a false modesty smile. He is in no way fooled.
November 2024 to Present
My heart is racing again. My wide-open eyes register a bridgeless chasm. I need someone to tell me that the landing will be soft and sweet, that the floor is a carpet of cotton candy.
I need someone to hold my hand.
Colette Parris is a Caribbean-American attorney with poetry and prose in Michigan Quarterly Review, Scoundrel Time, Gordon Square Review, The Offing, Cleaver, Lunch Ticket, and elsewhere. Her work has received numerous Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations, and was selected for inclusion in the Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2025. She lives in New York. Read more at coletteparris.com.
