After a while, you forget that itâ€™s summer. Months and weeks become meaningless numbers on the monitorâ€™s clock, and you donâ€™t bother asking anyone what they are doing on the weekend. You know. Theyâ€™re typing. You know.
You wait for the end of the shift and walk to the bar, seven blocks of August rain. â€œBeer,â€ you say, and the man obeys. Drops a pint on the table in front of you. You drum your fingers upon the wood, imagining text on the wall.
The beer is flat. The room is flat. Theyâ€™ve left you hanging, like they always do.
Hours later, after you thought youâ€™d fought it off, you surface in the lobby but the receptionist does not smirk. Sheâ€™s used to this. You know sheâ€™s used to this.
â€œOvertime?â€ she says, and you nod. Overtime. Undertime. Time. They sit you down in the room lit only by the blue of a monitor, and you unfold into the refresh rate of the digital screen.
It seems like the document is typing itself, but in an accidental glance you see your hands floating over the keyboard. They seem to be plastic. You realize that itâ€™s been days since you slept.
Your bell tolls eight hours and you push yourself up, forcing numb muscles to move to the door. You walk to the bar, seven blocks of August rain. â€œBeer,â€ you say, and the man obeys. Drops a pint on the table in front of you. You drum your fingers upon the wood, imagining text on the wall.