A duck isn’t a swan, nor is it a goose. Therefore a duck isn’t beautiful, nor does it land on your roof at night and honk and hork until you seriously consider hanging yourself.
Ducks, are. They simply are. They are somewhere in the middle, and they seem perfectly fine with that. Hence, Malcolm, who considered ducks. He enjoyed ducks and he enjoyed himself. He wondered if the ducks considered him, but he knew they didn’t; they went about their business downriver while he sat there, indolently and waiting for his lunch break to expire. When he realized that it was half past one, and half an hour beyond his lunch break, he stirred and walked back to his office, where surely there awaited a lashing of the written warning variety.
But, there wasn’t. Ben paid no mind, Malcolm’s desk neighbors paid no mind. All in all, not a soul paid any mind. After two hours of doing his job, Malcolm began his stroll home.
The location of Malcolm’s tiny house means nothing to this story. But, his house was on a street off another street, on the corner of both. It was tall and thin, like a long hallway ten feet across with three stories connected by a spiral staircase made of rusty steel as old as the house itself–at least seventy years. Yes, it was cramped in Mal’s house, but to Malcolm, it was home and he enjoyed home.
His supper was simple. It was two juicy sausages pan fried in butter and white wine. The sausages were piled atop a steaming pile of garlic mashed potatoes, with both elements doused in the butter and white wine sauce. It was entirely divine; savory, salty, a touch sweet, delicious. Pure perfection and what Mal considered a proper helping of comfort. To drink, he drank none other than dark chestnut ale, sudsy and full.
It was a perfect night, alone, in peace, on his cozy black couch in his rickety old house.