In the Study

The man eased into the deep-seated chair in his office. The patented brown leather creaked in protest as he shifted his considerable bulk. A sigh emanated from the man’s thick lips and swept across the room, disturbing the still air and stirring the sheaf of papers on the desk. In the corner, the little clock ticked happily to itself, marking the ceaseless passage of time as was its duty.

The man pulled the typewriter closer to him and squinted at the blank piece of paper through eyes that were rimmed with yellow like the pages of an old book. His swollen, arthritic fingers began to tap the keys with a sharp rat-tat. The rhythm was irregular, spurts like machine gun fire followed by the solitary blasts of a sniper rifle. Still, the lines of text inched irrevocably down the page and the clock continued to emit its steady tick, unmindful of the typewriter’s idiosyncratic beats.

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