Kiku's fingers tapped lightly on his desk. The sound seemed to get louder every time it hit his eardrums, and it was making his vision fuzzy. Every light thunk sent a small shock wave up from his fingers to the crease of his arm. It made his blood feel warm and fuzzy. It was hot in his office.
Sweat ran, one drop at a time, down his brow, down his cheek, until it pooled in the crease of his lips. With a mental sigh, he withdrew his hand slowly from the desk to wipe his mouth. He looked at the little sphere of liquid now on the back of his hand. It was hot in his office.
He set his hand back on the desk, noticing, for the first time, how the grains in the wood looked like things. He squinted at it, splaying his hand on the desk as he searched for pictures. His hand felt like it was on fire as he traced little shapes that he had found. It was hot in his office.
He wasn't sure why he had come. He didn't have any work to do. He could be outside, swimming in the cool waters of his quaint home. He was done editing what he had been told to edit by his supervisor and boss, and he had been told to take a break. So he was. But it was hot in his office.
He leaned back in his chair, hearing it squeak. Why did I come here? It's so hot in my office…
The office seemed to waver in the heat that came from somewhere outside. The light blue walls and the white ceiling fan seemed impossibly bright. The bookshelves on one corner of the room were dark wood, sucking out the light from the other bright objects in the room and making them bearable to look at. Kiku looked down. It was hot in his office.
The clock on the wall seemed to be looking at him, curiosity etched on its ever-moving face. The hands hypnotized him. Tick-tock…Kiku wondered why people had decided that tick-tock didn't fit the sounds his clock was making at him. It was more like…ha…ha…ha…ha. Like it was gloating at him, because his office was hot.
How did my feet get on the desk?
Kiku's cellphone suddenly went off, causing his feet to fall to the floor in surprise. He fumbled in his pants pocket for the small device.
"Hello, this is Kiku speaking."
"Yes, this is , with the military, we have some news regarding AlfredF. Jones."
Kiku's hand tightened on the phone. His knuckles were stretched and white, and it seemed to take ages for him to reply. When he finally did, the air he used to form his next words felt like they had come out of an ancient tomb, rotten, dry. "What…what kind of news?"
The woman answered immediately. "Bad news, I'm afraid. , right now is in an airplane on the way back from where he was stationed abroad."
Kiku sank into his chair. Reality flew from him like park doves fleeing a running child. He became conscious of only two things. His hand on the phone. And the voice in his ear, telling him that his Alfred, his Alfred, had been shot.
And he was dying.