Uma

Please allow me to start this, our first communiqué, properly, with a hey there! The drag on of my day continues in a tedious fashion and even though the paint is drying, I don’t seem to be any closer to the end of the day. Alas, the four o’clock bell has rungeth, four times, and I am yet another hour closer to leaving, but the finish line is still drearily hidden off in the distance. A distracting dalliance you are, but don’t be sour, I write you to write you as well as to pass the time.

The sun, dancing with a different lady, a different hemisphere, has dipped beyond my sight. My window reveals this and teases me with a reflection of myself. A single strand of cold air waltzes past my ear. My window doesn’t close all the way. Peaking back to the reflection before me, I see an ugly sight. My shirt, awful, my pants, wrinkled, what was I thinking this morning? It doesn’t matter. Still off to the bar I’ll go.

From a few flights up I can peer at the world. Well, sixth avenue and some of 42nd. A yellow mist colors the streets, taxis are not few and far between. Brake lights on a city night, it’s a painting in motion with pollution. The earth is flat and square. You would believe it too if you were standing right here.

Perfume trails can actually be seen from the visitor that just visited and left. She was here on official business. Secret Santa to some, Pollyanna to others, it’s the game we play in the world of the office. I chose a guy, a friend at that, I’ll have some fun with this gift. I have thoughts already for this special occasion. Mister Potato head, maybe, a Chia-head, could be, it’s one since his head was massively crafted.

My thoughts take a left down the road to beyond. Actually, to what I’ll be doing tonight. It’s a Tuesday with Morrie, rather, Dave and Rachael. We’ll have dinner at the bar where I’m a regular. The spirits will flow along with the libations, stories, chides, and laughter. I feel at home with a group of former strangers. It’s the way of life in the city.

My officemate, an attraction for sure, is trying to strike up a conversation. “I’m writing,” I squeal. “I don’t care,” she replied. “I’m a lady so I will be heard.” Ten minutes of time has just been spent hearing of this and of that. I feign interest, it’s about her shoes, until she decides to move on. A good sport I am, though sometimes it’s rough, I struggle with the talk of apparel.

This tale is of me and forty-five minutes in time. I wish that it were more exciting. I could tell of robbers, of cops and horses, of a one armed man with two guns. I could speak of his lady with the truck driving tongue all hopped up on Night Train and Cheetos. But to me the challenge is not in the story. It’s in making the mundane seem fun.

Orpheous