Tuesday, December 28, 2004
EOB
I see him through his office window on the fourth floor of an old building across the street from the bus terminal. He’s standing in his shirt and tie, looking down at his desk, his hands on his hips. All around him the rest of the bullpen is dark; I can see the room is full of other desks but no one is sitting at any of them at the moment. His desk, under the tight circle of his lamp’s illumination, is not large; stacks of paper and binders crowd the meager surface before him. I can’t make out his features but he seems to be at the leading margin of his middle years, a man of average size and strength, a man like any other, like all others. The light bouncing off his papers faintly uplights his shirt, his face. His head slowly turns from side to side; he takes in the scene of darkness and vacancy that surrounds him. His hands rise to his face; he presses his palms slowly to his eyes, lets his head fall forward into them and cradles his face. His shoulders rise and droop, once, weary. He wipes his hands off his face - it seems, reluctantly - and reaches down to turn off his desk lamp. The office goes black. Moments later, I see his silhouette against the light of a doorway as he leaves. Then the darkness remains uninterrupted until I get on my bus and go home.
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Have a great holiday. See ya next year.
