Saturday, October 25, 2014

A Man and a Window

He sits and stares at the numbers, those endless curves and strikes, the page unraveling as his eyes move downward. The meaning becomes lost.

"I want that report in by seven, John."

I want to be able to take the elevator. 

His glasses slip down the curve of his nose but he doesn't push them up. He is conscious of their weight then, the pressure of the frames and the space outside them.

"There's a lot to be done, John. You'd better get started."

There is so much I cannot see. 

He notices a spot on his shirt, a faded stain just above his belt. Neapolitan ice cream, or dirt. He will go to the laundromat this week and linger there because the smell reminds him of home and funerals.

"What are you waiting for?"

He looks out the window. I am waiting for courage. I am waiting for fear.