A Story

He walks smoothly through the wooden doors to his study, in a manner of casual routine. Morning light slants through the angular windows of his skylight, resting softly upon his mahogany desk. The mail, placed neatly in a pile on his desk already, is perused briefly by the man, then set down with seeming indifference.

The round clock, fastened so long ago by a slender nail to the back wall, is ticking softly- a thundering noise in the hollow silence of the room. The man looks up at it, hard grey eyes resting briefly on the long hand of the clock, set just past the roman numeral III. He moves towards his desk, resting long slender hands on his pen and bringing it towards him, fiddling with it. The man appears preoccupied, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration and his expression nearly as menacing as it was thoughtful. He gripps the pen suddenly, feeling his hand tremble with apprehension, then brings it down suddenly and forcefully to the paper below. His hand moves fast, although his eyes convey bored indifference, and slowly his movements are more and more frenetic. Until he stops. Staring then, his expression one of the greatest shock and awe, the pen drops slowly from his hand. The man stands up, the chair pushed by his sudden rise, and brings whatever he has just written on the paper below, closer to his eyes.

It is as if his face has been transformed, a curious mixture of a deer trapped in the flourescent flood of headlights and a triumphant, restrained air that has suddenly infused this room, so mundane a few moments ago. The man moves now, faster and willfully, past his desk and runs out of the study.

It just made sense.