Just a quick, sharp, rush of air is all it is. A quick, sharp, rush of air. A breeze of exhaust from the vent port. Just a blunt churl of air."But is smells, funny" said the first with the air of a git.
"But it smells, funny" repeated the second with a dull incantation, "that's just what it smells like."
"It smells like that?"
"It smells like that."
"Whys it yellow?"
"Whys it yellow," repeated again the second, "It's just yellow."
Such is the rambling of the decrepit, the eavesdropper thought, sticking his head out the window,
"That's just what the air here smells like for gods sakes!"
Their voices quickly faded to a murmur of pseudo-Charlie Brown "WA-wa's" as he slid the window down.
I'm not naturally angry, he thought, just under alot of stress, alot of stress, alot of stress.
There was a paper on the table, opened conveniently to the sports section, and the radio still whispered soft ocean noises. His hand print was still on the window, fading away when he stepped out of the elevator.
Work was never far. Only three blocks in the ugly Federal Building. Third story up. A promenade of short trees, laden with lights, bristling with that alternating red and blue holiday cheer, lined the road to work. A life of endless Thursdays. Another civil war of introspective struggle. The 7, 8, 9 clocks on the wall, endlessly, tirelessly mocking the entire office staff. Everyday they placated themselves with the concept of going home, going home, going home, until they realize there's always tomorrow, drink a few more sips of their cappuccino, smoke a cigarette in three drags and wail on their children.
But there's always another fucker at the office party. Last month it was advertising. Its always advertising. The boss doesn't like working with women hes fucked more than once. That's why he's still in business. The wife stays in her half.
On his way up, he stopped off at the cappuccino machine. Still thinking about those long, long legs on the porno he rented the other day. He'd only watched the first eight minutes. Came before she took her shirt off. And this, he thought, was his liberation.
2 comments:
Brand New and (somewhat) improved Blog! A brand new face, for the same old thing.
Thankfully for me, I have the introspective irishman with his trusty firearms to keep me from ever becoming an office worker, although I have been told that I would be "fun" to work with in an office. I know some people who would beg to difer though. I liken this post to a surrealist painting made of words, which is really what your writing tends to look like. By this I mean I like Salvador Dali, so...
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