Perched uncomfortably on the edge of a swivel chair, his feet crossed at the ankles and resting atop the desk he types and clicks at the powerbook and squirms. Time is wasting, or rather, he’s wasting time. So many opportunities to do, what exactly? Something. Something that is just out of reach. It dashes in and out of the fringes of his consciousness like a firefly lighting up a warm summer evening. A light of joy, and then gone. Now another further away, and gone. Was it ever there at all. Of course it was, he thinks and chides himself for being dramatic. Cut it out. That dreamy, mushy head got you into this situation. So now what? The ringing in his ears and the dryness of his eyes coupled with the numbing and tingling of his crossed legs beg him to go to bed. But he holds off a little longer, for these late hours are the time that great things get accomplished. Nothing amazing was ever realized from nine to five he thinks, or maybe he just can’t think between nine and five. In this odd funk the sudden appearance of Vasquez seemed almost natural, except that he died going on about twelve years ago.
Written by Bill
