One Flew

The computer hums behind my chair on my desk in the office. In addition to the mild buzz of the fluorescent lights above me, and the steady click click click of the baseboard heat, and the radio making its way underneath the door in the shop, where no loud tools are being used, not at the moment; it's time to shut it down. I check the program one more time... No more updates to be made. Shut down. Less than an hour of work, that means. The computer hum fizzles out. 

Now the lights sound louder, the clock comes alive and I can hear it ticking, too. I tune into all of this, and tune out of my book, eyes still scanning the lines, but not reading the words.

People actually had to lick stamps, remember that? I was confused when my boss sent me to the post office earlier, where I avoided a former high school classmate, pretending I didn't notice anyone standing there, let alone recognize her. Boss said, "make sure...well, I guess they're all self-adhesive now." And now I remember, didn't I used to have to lick them? Or was that phased out, and grandmom just kept them for us with the stickers and markers in the little desk in the corner of her dining room?

On the way back from lunch run, I feel like i'm dying... I'm talking to myself and I feel like I'm dying. I actually say that out loud, and laugh at myself. I tell Taylor that I feel strangely peaceful, yet chaotic. Like maybe about to die, like this is how people feel before they kick the bucket or something. I had to text her that, that I'm in a fog. She doesn't have much response. I wouldn't either. 

Less than an hour left of work. I just want to go home and take off my bra. I'll read for the rest of my time here, if I can tune out the sound of the light and the heat and the time again. But something feels good about my heightened senses, and I sit, concentrating on the murmurs, until a coworker's cell phone's full volume ringer disrupts my reverie, and I pick up my book again.