I had never noticed the shadow but the spider is new.
My desk, my life was in that corner.
Someone is tapping their finger on the table. They are all here.
I watch the ink settle into the paper, it absorbs too quickly to catch sight of the shiny fluid.
Like them the paper is impatient and thirsty.
I had never noticed the shadow but the spider is new. My desk, my life was in that corner.
I hear the sounds of the city leaving just as I could then. Eighteen years a clerk, the stain of registrar ink on my fingers has long replaced pink flesh. I put a finger to my lips, its tastes like a broth of ants, bitter, acidic. A light breeze on my cheek as I watch the blue black oil float above the paper. Slowly it settles, absorbed by the page, cruel in appearance and application.
The curtain rod lightly tapping on the glass wakes me from my thoughts. I must hurry now. This page, a foreclosure and a celebration today as we have now written a thousand just like this. This is my inheritance, this has always been my life.
Someone is tapping their finger on the table. They are all here.
I watch the ink settle into the paper, it absorbs too quickly to catch sight of the shiny bead. Like them the paper is impatient and thirsty.
The sun is low on the street and that shadow was so long. How is it that I had not seen it before and how does it end before the room that was once my office is soaked up by the blue black city night.
