My Walk Home
It's weekday, so workday. I'm staring at my computer typing, clicking, scrolling then scratching my neck before I repeat the process. Come to think of it, 1000 mouse clicks a day could be a number I surpass. Beads that hoist our curtain up, bump as a gust of wind makes its way through the only window in the office. Occasionally a colligue walks in for pleasantries or a task. When my tummy rumbles because I left home without breakfast, I think of walking to the mid section of our floor to get some tea; sometimes I get the brew, other times I ignore the rumble because I fear the pot might be empty, after I'm a little late, and I'll feel shame walking back with an empty cup. My shift ends and as I stand before the lift door, it pings and the electronic lady-voice says it's 'Going Down'. It briefly excites me, but the thought vanishes as I realize it's not yet FurahiDay. Outside I'm met with a bustling city. Slow pacers, striders and some...