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 grim, sulking room. The old clock that had once hung high was now relegated to an obscure corner. Dust smothered its face and 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, hands clasped over his head, then sat as quickly as he had risen and continued turning several more pages. After several loops through these same motions, a knock echoed across the walls. He spun in his chair, sending his teacup, papers, and books onto the bare hardwood floor. Their crash answered the initial knock. He leaned forward onto his knees, repositioned his glasses, and stared intently at the door of his apartment.

The knock came once more. He sprang up, grabbed his robe from the back of the desk chair, and swung it over his shoulders. When he reached the door, he pressed his shoulder against the wall and whispered through 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 three 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 toward the window, knocking over a lamp along the way. He rifled through a drawer beside his desk and pulled out a half-crumpled stack of papers. He stopped and stared out into the city. Below the towering buildings, cars rushed past one another. As he closed his eyes, his whole body went still except for the fingers fluttering against his right thigh. He smirked.

‘Mr. Saxton?’

Mr. Saxton ran back toward the door, nearly tripping over the lamp he had knocked over, and caught himself on the lounge chair. He opened the door. James Huntington still stood there, peering into Mr. Saxton’s apartment with a confused expression.

‘Mr. Saxton, do you have the bo—’

Mr. Saxton handed him the stack of crumpled papers.

‘Here.’ James continued to look confused.

‘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 sank 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 passed. The dim light that had snuck its way into Mr. Saxton’s apartment began to fade. It dragged itself from his face and descended behind the western cityscape. Mr. Saxton stretched his arms toward the bookcase, extended his legs in front of him, and let out a yawn so carefree that the walls banged back at him, almost as if to shush him. After he banged back in the rhythm of some old nursery rhyme, Mr. Saxton leapt up and entered the kitchen. He swung open both refrigerator doors and poked through what was left.

He eased one door closed and caught 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 toward the window as purple and blue lights flickered through his apartment.

He swiped the last three eggs.

‘An omelet sounds nice,’ he said aloud.