The jealous cowboy

Posted: September 13, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

Magnifying glass

Image via Wikipedia

every time he passes by my desk, he asks the same question, from about 10 feet away: are you done yet? ready for the weekend? At first I actually thought that there was something of mine that needed to be readied for the weekend, then at second, I considered that maybe I had started some project and left it mid spot in the air to never look at it again. But the number of times he passed by my desk and asked the same two questions increased, like fifty times, over the last 60 days straight, subtracting of course Sundays, Saturdays and days that he has classes, and days that I am not at my desk when he walks by it, and days that I come into the office after 10 because I stay up really late when in doing so, I miss the window of opportunity to sleep, only thinking about it when it is too late to reclaim the sleep, how then I close my eyes and put one hand over the other under my pillow, forcing my legs against the mattress, flexing my ass cheeks together until my toes almost cramp but don’t, I fall asleep into that continuous kaleidoscope, part gyroscope, part periscope, part microscope, part telescope,my own full 4″ diameter magnifying glass, personal and private facets of my universal prism, that are my dreams..
Eliminating the two: first and second possibilities I wondered if he were not secretly a king of some small island of universal knowledge, misplaced inside someones desk drawer, or in the abyss that is the ocean, and that he would be granted something like a bathroom pass, approximately once a day to wake up the awareness of the sleep deprived. I was beginning to think so.
After a while I started looking forward to hearing his raspy voice, behind the quick glance he would throw my way: are you done yet? ready for the weekend? At this point I do not feel the need to respond, and I find that my head is drifting after his corpulent majesty. He wipes the sweat off his forehead, the curly dark hair disorderly framing his wide round face. From the back he has this stupid military cut. What a contrast, maybe it is a regal thing and I don’t get it.As I drift my skirt catches a plastic hook on the higher shelf in the storage room and I deposit myself in the wider corridor. Am I done yet? Probably not. In order to know I would have to set a starting point. Does drifting have a starting point? Or is it more like slipping out of immobility, out of paralysis… I wouldn’t know since I am in it. As a bystander in someone elses story I would be quick to know. But here, it is not worth my effort. So I drift, I snag, I deposit, I ponder and I listen to the next question: Am I ready for the weekend? Who wouldn’t be? What is there to do? Does anyone fucking prepare for the weekend? Like I have to ease myself into rest. I don’t think so… It was then that I realized what the shit-head-king was doing. Drift fence, the bastard.


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