Bloated

“Where are my gloves? I miss my gloves.”

 

Jocelyn dragged her foot, thin and yellowed bandages trying to defend her feeble ankle against the stones.

 

“Where are my gloves? I miss them.”

Everyone was just the same. There were no differences.

In an office building Harry Nives mashes the keys. A mass of letters on the paper. Again! Another mass. Such nice messages, ritual spaces too good for them. Short strands of hair covered the keyboard, but now isn’t the time for sweeping hair into the appropriate bins, a letter must be ready to send at 4. But Harry’s digital watch was drawn onto his wrist with a ballpoint pin just this morning, frozen in saying:

 

7:44 AM.

 

Naturally, Harry had to work fast, being completely in the dark on the true time. Hitting the keys, he continually glanced at his arm’s false watch, seeing nothing but

 

7:44 AM.

 

He had to puke. Naturally. It happens on the job. Must have something to do with the chemicals. Or the chimes. He wiped his mouth with his necktie, and resumed in allowing his to fingers dance wildly on the keyboard.

The chimes rang, indicating that the chimes still are functioning properly.

 

 

The End

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