The Foggy Days
Flash fiction
I hate those things that could be both best and worst. Like a fog. The best — it can turn you into invisibility; the worst — only for a while. It can make you invisible, but only for a while. Lost in the mist, but not really.
But. But. But.
All those buts. They’re everywhere, even in a fog, damn it. Hundredths — thousands — of buts per butt. And we’re worried about overpopulating the planet? What about the but-pollution?
But perhaps I am really just missing the point.
“You’re missing the point, Mike,” says my boss, hunching over his desk; his arms and hanging navy blue tie like a tripod for his furrowed face. Behind him, wide windowpanes opening to a dark, foggy sky.
“You’re smart—”
Like fields in Excel sheets, lapsing endlessly down, down, down. Aligned in columns and rows, storing organized data thanks to which my life is—
“—organized, and reasonable. You’re educated, well experienced—”
But even columns and rows bend over time into shapes, pictures from my daily life. Or is it the other way around?
“In a way, you’re indispensable — ”
Okay. Now, I feel it’s coming. Like if I’m there, in his head, watching that word going on a neuron slide down to his tongue.
“But — “
And here we go.
But.
I lift my hand. “Bob, I…”
“No, Mike,” he cuts me off. “Let me finish.”
Of course, because saying “but” without the rest? Who has ever seen that, right?
“I mean, everyone has noticed something’s wrong with you Mikey, okay? Everyone’s worried about you.”
“Everyone?”
He lifts his hand to halt me and subconsciously destroys the tripod.
“You’re unconcentrated, missing deadlines, perpetually staring out of these fucking windows!“
He straightens out, striking his other hand towards the windowpanes. The tripod’s gone. Definitely.
“I know you’re denying it, okay?”
He’s all aware, yet that interrogative tone. So, do you know or not? Slides down my neuron slide, stopping only inches from a tongue as he says:
“Tell me, Mike. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
He puts his hands on his hips. Having those thin arms folded at his sides, he looks like a pot. A pressure cooker with his brows for a lid, nervously hopping out of the blood boiling in.
I burst into laughter.
The hopping lid freezes; his eyes widen.
“What?” he gasps, quickly followed by a firmer, “What!”
There’s silence for several seconds, not even dull bubbling inside the pot.
“What?!” he splutters, from under the lid for the third time.
But, I don’t have any answer.
