25 Hour Watch

The landscape stretched before him, as far as he could see.  A vast orange-ish red, streaks of black running from his eyes as they pressed with the side of his face against the surface.  The grained wood was hard, and gave nothing for Rick’s cheek.  Waking from where he rested, face draped across his wooden computer desk, Rick imagined an alien planet of orange and black, the ground solid under ever step the inhabitants took.

It would be an empty planet, long dark grains running forward, fleeing as you journeyed toward them.  With them.  Rick didn’t mind being alone.  He worked alone.  He lived alone.  He ate alone.  He dreamed alone.  He fell asleep on his desk alone.

He closed his eyes and tried to cement his planet into his memory, maybe he could visit it later.  Maybe it wouldn’t prove to be as solitary as it appeared, if he looked in the right place.  He opened his eyes, one long and slow motion, realizing he was too tired to go back to sleep.  He brought his hands up beside his head on the desk and began to push, lifting his head slowly.  6:02 P.M.  About a six minute nap.  It was worth it.  Unplanned, but worth it.  A fifteen hour day, and at least six more hours to go.  Running on two hours of sleep and one cup of coffee.  And it’d only been a Grande.

His six minute nap felt like a pitiful paperclip in a battle against the dragon of his sleep.  What good does that do, really?

Rick rubbed his eyes and turned from the glowing monitor in front of him.  It’s blue hue casting the only light across his room, the shadow of his head blocking out a portion of the glow.  He needed to be there by 7, not enough time to find his armor and face the beast.  Hopefully the paperclip would hold him together.

Moving across the room in the dark, he flung open his closet door, lifted the front neck of his shirt to his nose and inhaled.  Rick was sure he’d showered.  He pulled a new shirt from a hanger, letting it slam back and forth, empty.  He pulled the old shirt off over his head and let it fall to his feet.  As he opened the head hole and positioned the arms, he saw himself in the mirror across the room.  The blue glow of the computer cast across his torso, painting his flesh.  He was sure the people on his orange, wooden planet would be blue.  That would make them easier to find.

He slipped the shirt over his head and grabbed his keys.  Coat, cell phone, wallet.  He’d never taken off his shoes after work.  He flicked on the overhead light and stopped in the mirror one more time, the blue cleared away.  Jeans, a simple shirt.  He hoped it would be enough.  You only get one first date.