Malcolm returned to his desk that was wildly plain. Not a picture frame garnished its top, not a paperclip bound the loose and disorganized papers strewn recklessly.
“Terrence,” Malcolm said to the man in the cubicle next to his. “I’m taking lunch. Pass that on if Ben comes sniffing around.”
Terrence flicked his hand in the air, meaning either than he despised Mal and wanted him to go away, or that he despised Mal and he wanted him to go away while also receiving Mal’s message.
So, from the office building Malcolm left, happily. For lunch he’d hardly eat if at all. It slowed him down and made him lazy, ultimately making his days worse than they were–longer and less interesting. Yes, that was possible. What kept him where he was in his waking state, was the smell of stale city air, recycled and sour. Car exhaust escaping mufflers in thick grey wafts moving hastily to join the clouds above. The sound of traffic and the footsteps of average folks doing average work for less than average lives. That was Malcolm, as he walked down Bethany Avenue, to 11th Street in motion to his regular spot by the river.
It was spring. Along the ground where the ground met the foundations of buildings, snow cascaded in small banks stained brown and yellow from the obvious things. Through the bustle of North Eriksdale Malcolm began thinking to himself.
I’m certainly not going anywhere exciting. His thoughts transitioned to how he wound up where he was, and how it was hardly different from where he came…