Impermanence

The room was pale white. On the walls were charts and graphs and a few pieces of art that looked like they didn't belong and had likely come from a cheap print shop in a mall. It was a depressing display.

The golf shirt collared man stood at the front of the room, near the whiteboard, and held a tiny marker in his hand in a way that made Black think that this must be how he held his prick each morning, vainly trying to cheer it out of its decades long slumber. The collar was lost in his own unconscious, he was explaining a flow chart that had the simplicity of a grade school assignment, and he grasped his marker too tight so that it made his whole arm shake slightly if you paid enough attention to it.

Black paid enough attention to it.

Black tried to imagine the collar fucking. He was middle age, not very overweight, still had his hair; it was not an inconceivable proposition. But his lifeless drone and obvious excitement with the myriad of arrows and bubbles made such an image nearly impossible. Black could only imagine it as surreal vaudeville; every movement made too fast, the collar and his mate dressed in far too formal garb, the collar wearing an oversized top hat, a piano playing frantically in the background completely out of rhythm with the strokes.

Black stifled a laugh at the thought. And then he became very sad. The pale white appeared to darken. The collar lost his surreal affront and appeared as a man in all its horror. Black, face to face with the realisation, shifted uncomfortably in his seat near the back of the room and tried to drown himself to the tune of 'Suzanne', but even the words of Leonard Cohen did little to console him. Soon he would present himself.
- posted by Sigurd6/29/2004 04:14:00 PM