He
woke and scanned his dreams for something, anything, to take him through to
lunchtime. There wasn’t much out there in the real world, so you
had to fill your saddle-bags when you could. Aside from the usual gunshot to
the neck, there was nothing to be gleaned for the trip to work.
His
feet flopped from the bed onto thick carpet. His torso hung in a heavy slouch.
His feet had new veins on them, he noticed – blue, green, purple. Bruised
spaghetti. Revolting, but at least it
was something.
He
surveyed the sluggish traffic with indifference, ignoring the frantic
oscillations of the electric toothbrush on his gums. The stream of pedestrians
merged - pulsing columns of heat and emotion, none available to him.
A flash
of click-clacking yellow heels bloomed in the grey, but was absorbed once more.
He’d fuck her, he was sure of it. Given the right circumstances, he’d fuck her.
Just not yet. Not quite yet.
By the
time the door clicked behind him, she had dissolved like everything else. None
of his synapses bore her mark.
Was
the gas on? Not knowing’s more interesting than knowing, he thought, imagining
the smoking wreckage on his return. Maybe he could even shake a firemean’s big,
useful hand. With a smile on his face, he stepped out into the street, his filter set to 'impress me.'
Cool. Not in the first person, I like - doesn't have to be the tortured world of a middle class white man! I like the preparation for stepping out into the commute, and the filter we have for that.
ReplyDeleteTwo 'clicks'. Don't understand 'at least it was something'. Why would he wantto shake a firman's hand?
'Something' as oppposed to nothing. Something, to him, is a result, cos he blocks 99.99% of the world out.
ReplyDeleteAs for the fireman's hand, i guess he just gets excited at something happening, even if that somehting is actually a bad thing - e.g. his flat burning down.
He's slightly autistic
I know the feeling.
ReplyDelete