The sound he enjoys most is of the soles of his shoes against a lonely linoleum hallway irradiated by a long line of fluorescent light. He likes to clasps things under his arm. It doesn't matter what, as long as it makes him feel important. Some days, it's the Times. Other days, it's a goldenrod folder, the top sealed with red string doubled-back and tripled-back and quadrupled-back around itself. He gets himself into a hypnotic daze, gliding through underground passages to the metronome of his stride.
He's very good at what he does; he prides himself upon professionalism. Because a professional is in complete control, has mastery of his craft. Nothing can perturb him when he is in his zone.
When he creases paper, he hunches over, aligning the straight edges with each other. He checks one side, then the other. In a swoop, his index finger crushes the bubble in the paper, the sound of a million fibers bending to his will.
He's very good at what he does.
No comments:
Post a Comment