Patience

Time doesn’t run; it builds and steadily grows heavier.

A man sat at his desk, head in his books, glancing every so often at the bottle of scotch across his sulky grim room. The old grand clock that had once hung high was now settled obscurely in the corner. The dust that was smothered along its face fell drunkenly to the floor as the second hand ticked one last time. He snapped to the next page. Then again, and again. He stood up, his hands placed over his head and then sat down as quickly as he had stood up continuing with turning several more pages. After a loop of these same happenings, a knock echoed across the walls. He spun suddenly around in his chair, tossing his teacup, along with his papers and books, down to the bare hardwood floor, reverberating an echo back towards the initial knock. He leaned forward onto his knees, repositioned his glasses on his face and stared intently at the door of his apartment.

The knock came once more. He sprung up, grabbed his robe off of the back of the desk chair and swung it over his back. When he made it to the door, he dropped his shoulder against the wall and whispered into it:

‘Who is it?’

‘Mr. Saxton, it’s James. James Huntington.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Well, I’m here to discuss the book you’re writing.’

‘What book?’

‘The one I’m hoping you’re writing, sir.’

‘Go away.’

‘Mr. Saxton, we agreed on 3 months. It’s been three months now, so I was hoping to see the first half of the book. If you don’t have anything, we may have to go in another direction…’

Mr. Saxton jumped over his lounge chair and ran towards the window knocking over a lamp on the way. He ruffled though a drawer next to his desk and pulled out a half crumbled up stack of papers. He stopped for a second and stared out into the city. In the foreground of towering buildings were cars rushing past one another. As he closed his eyes his whole body went still except for his fingers that fluttered on his right thigh. He smirked.’

‘Mr. Saxton?’

Mr. Saxton ran back towards the door slightly tripping over the lamp he had knocked over earlier and caught himself on his lounge chair. He opened the door and there still stood James Huntington who wore a confused look as he peered into Mr. Saxton’s apartment.

‘Mr. Saxton do you have the bo…’

Mr. Saxton handed him the stack of crumpled of papers.

‘Here.’ James continued to wear his confused look.

‘Well, I guess I’ll read this over the weekend and get back to you on Monday. I sure hope…’

Mr. Saxton slammed the door. He slung his robe onto his bed in the other room and slunk greatly into the lounge chair. He kicked up his feet and went willingly into a daydream as Vivaldi played in the background and winter crept in.

Several hours had past. The dim light that had snuck its way into Mr. Saxtons apartment began to fade. It slowly dragged itself from Mr. Saxtons face and descended gracefully behind the westbound cityscape. Mr. Saxton pushed his arms back towards the bookcase, let his legs reach out in front of him, and let out a yawn so carefree the walls banged back at him almost as if to shush him. After he banged back, in accordance with the rhythm of some old nursery rhyme, Mr. Saxton leapt up and entered the kitchen. He swung open both of the refrigerator doors and poked through what was left.

He closed one door slightly to catch a glimpse of the time above the oven. The numbers were jumbled, flipped upside down, and completely incomprehensible, blinking in and out. Mr. Saxton looked up and over to the window as purple and blue lights shuttered into his apartment.

He swiped the last three eggs.

‘An omelet sounds nice,’ he said aloud.