Short Story: Part 8

Overcast all day until about 4:45 when the clouds rolled away and the occluded light shot in through the thick and beaded window of my office. I was fighting off the ill effects of the day’s monotony—and not doing too poorly—I thought opening the window would help—letting some of the wet air in with the light—hearing the outside sounds unstifled—and it did. The window had no remaining paint strips to peel or drop off, but I stared a few moments at the grey and fibrous patches that the peeling left behind.

The light lasted only an hour or so, and the wind from outside began to chill the room. In that time I filled a few more boxes and watched the clock every now and then, looking up between letters. I stayed late again until the sky outside was black, and I left the window open so the cooling air would keep me awake. The marble stamp roller ran out of water frequently, but I didn’t mind so much having to refill it—it was a reason to take a break from the repetition of the letter work.

In the 9:00 hour the clock began its usual amplification of its clicking—again just by a moment preempting the movement of its minute hand. 9:14 echoed off the wall behind me and into the back of my lolling head. I looked up with time to spare to see the hand lunge forward.

I’d told myself I’d stay until 11:00, and I did. On my way out I took the stairs—it was becoming a new habit—but this time on the way down, midway between the 4th and 5th floor, I ran into a man in a long grey coat. My heart leapt at the surprise, and I completely forgot what it was that strangers did, upon meeting in the same office building. He didn’t see me, which gave me a second chance: “Evening!” I said. He didn’t see me because he was staring out the window into the parking lot with singular intensity. Such was the degree of his observations that he didn’t reply for several moments—such was the vision I imagined in which he was caught that he couldn’t tear his eyes away. And this was confirmed in my mind when he replied, “Oh, good evening,” without looking away. I passed behind him in desperation to see what it was he was looking at, but his body, motionless, blocked the view. I walked down the stairs slowly at first, then I ran hoping to catch the scene in the parking-lot from outside.

The doors locked behind me—it was cold outside. I put my hands in my pockets, drew in a deep breath, and walked home.