Why don’t you write more?
Every morning around 6 am I get home from work. I shield my eyes from the sun and scuttle into my apartment. I stare at the computer for two hours before adjusting my glare to the ceiling. Sometimes I fall asleep. Most of the time I don’t.
I creep into the shower at 6 pm to wash some sadness off my back. I make sure to put extra soap under my armpits where the fear has collected. Hair strands crawl down my body so they can dance around the drain. There is more hair dancing this month than usual.
On the way to work I stick close to the shadows where no one can see the dark circles and mis-matched jewelry. I would use makeup to cover up my tired, but why waste expensive makeup on an empty office? I wink at the night guard when I enter our building. He gets it. I slouch into my chair, hoping no one has noticed that I’ve come in a little after 8pm. They haven’t. They are too busy slouched in their chairs. I open my browser and begin to write.
At 10:17 pm my boss comes over to my cubicle and jams an esophagus-sized straw down my throat. He begins to suck out the contents of my stomach — usually two tea eggs and a bag of peanuts — he then lifts the straw ever so slightly to get the contents of my heart. When the air bubbles begin clanging against the plastic, he pulls the straw out and wipes his mouth. I return back to my work.
I’d better post a pretty photo soon, otherwise they’ll grow suspicious of why I don’t write anymore.