Wednesday, January 7, 2009

a homeless goldfish

She could learn the schedules and habits of the break rooms, the smoking room, the security guards. She could exchange the sugar for salt, short circuit the vending machines, shut down the photocopiers; she could never attend another meeting and still appear to be working harder than ever. Or she could return to her desk for another round of solitaire, a conversation of soul-numbing stupidity, a complaint about the coffee.
She was still in the elevator. Colleagues, strangers, interviewees entered, silencing their conversations when in groups, becoming intimate strangers for the duration of the one floor or five or ten that they ascended. They were unfailingly, exceedingly polite to other occupants, people they would avoid under any circumstances excepting the alternative reality of the elevator, where they would nod, and travel companionably between floors, joined in a moment of complete dependence upon the technology of transportation.



reading The West Indies and the Spanish Main / by Anthony Trollope
weather four inches of frozen slush covered with a blanket of snow
{all disdainfully plowed, partially melted, and refrozen}