After years of the business, I realized that I’d been doing everything the unnecessarily hard way. This moment would arrive delayed—twelve years after a trio of months lived in a hotel room decorated in a motif of vivid, living red that hung in the lengths of curtains and duvets, twirled in the chairs with bowed legs, the vinyl fading against the small of our backs into a leaping shade of raspberry. In the present time: a nifty graphic on the computer screen that seems to offer no solution to the puzzle of my own hands, which suddenly appear differently than they’re allowed to--like they are too flat. My hands move themselves up against my computer monitor, then over my desk, testing out the hypothesized smoothness of other surfaces, merely a twinge of movement to break the silence that’s fencing itself between me and my co-worker, who is crying and yanking out tissues by the fistful. The hands come back in front of me. A freckle jumps out from upon my palm in the blinding effort of all that whiteness.

My mother told me a long time ago that this is a good, true story that has no resolve. In front of a computer monitor, dopey-eyed and sort of bleary from too much coffee, nothing much seems like a story with a moral. There can’t be abundant oxygen in the air with so many around me, breathing inconsiderately--the shearing noises of the machines in the back room screech and whirr invisibly, bringing everyone’s hands up to their ears merely to test the vacuum that could be created by sealing the ears up. It seems like pretending I cannot hear is the answer--I can avoid the questioning, the sobbing, the thudding sighs going on to my sides. Forward, there is a screen, the nifty graphic, and my hands up in front of my face. Here is where I can get away with things.

Sometimes I get this puckery sour-mouthed feeling, like a precursor to a vomiting fest. It never arrives with any sort of uncomfortable physical conditions: no churning stomach noises or brow-massaging, but a presence like I’m trying to wash away some back-dropped moaning that is
even higher-pitched and gruesome than the clamor in the most forgotten rooms of my office space. A few more sighs later and my co-worker will ask what my deal is. The answer: “I’m just taking my time.”

So, I think I've finally finished it. If you want to read the rest, ask me. I just don't want to bore anyone.