Grey

Outside, a banker in a suit sauntered by cradling a skateboard. The day looked warm and pleasant, not carefree, but beginning to be. The first toke on a stressed cigarette. Soon, relaxation.


But the air inside was a starched shirt that had been bleached and rewashed a thousand times, only to become bloodied when reworn. And here he hunched, inside. His hands were dry and mottled, for any water consumed was eagerly leeched out by the vapid air. The lonely Kitkat wrappers on his desk played silent games with each other for company. He would do it tomorrow. Always, tomorrow.