Flame and Fortune
Chapter 2: Reflections
Goren sat down at his desk at work. Unable to concentrate, he pulled out his notebook and started to write.
A Different Generation
Young blood
Seductive, slick, soft.
A rouge, with a passion.
Undeniable.
He flipped his notebook shut and went to work. His mind kept on floating back to Cecelia. He knew it was wrong. It wasn't right. He needed to dedicate himself to his passion: his career, his job, his work. By whatever name, it was his passion. Not a woman. A problem. He erased the poem about Cecelia and laughed. He called himself a rouge. Imagine that. What the hell was a rouge? What was he talking about? Cecelia was a college flame. Nothing more. Cecelia was young. Twenty-five. How was Goren? Huh? He didn't even want to know. Old. Exactly. Goren laid his head on his desk and closed his eyes. Eames walked up to him and patted his back.
"What's wrong? Goren?" She said in a motherly way.
"I'm just stressed." Goren replied sleepily.
"You, stressed? Never." Eames said. She chuckled. She sat down at her desk and talked to Goren. She talked about her baby, how great the new baby was. Goren listened mildly and replied, "Yeah, uh-huh, Great," every once in awhile. His head was plastered to his desk. He sat up and sighed. "Time to go to work." He said to himself. He shuffled some papers around on his desk and went to work. He delved into the work and used it as a cornerstone for his worries. He filled out some paperwork, and slammed his hands on his desk. "Dammit." He yelled. He went to the police break room. Eames said to her boss, "I've never seen him like this." She shook her head, and went back to work. She sighed.
Goren sat down at his desk at work. Unable to concentrate, he pulled out his notebook and started to write.
A Different Generation
Young blood
Seductive, slick, soft.
A rouge, with a passion.
Undeniable.
He flipped his notebook shut and went to work. His mind kept on floating back to Cecelia. He knew it was wrong. It wasn't right. He needed to dedicate himself to his passion: his career, his job, his work. By whatever name, it was his passion. Not a woman. A problem. He erased the poem about Cecelia and laughed. He called himself a rouge. Imagine that. What the hell was a rouge? What was he talking about? Cecelia was a college flame. Nothing more. Cecelia was young. Twenty-five. How was Goren? Huh? He didn't even want to know. Old. Exactly. Goren laid his head on his desk and closed his eyes. Eames walked up to him and patted his back.
"What's wrong? Goren?" She said in a motherly way.
"I'm just stressed." Goren replied sleepily.
"You, stressed? Never." Eames said. She chuckled. She sat down at her desk and talked to Goren. She talked about her baby, how great the new baby was. Goren listened mildly and replied, "Yeah, uh-huh, Great," every once in awhile. His head was plastered to his desk. He sat up and sighed. "Time to go to work." He said to himself. He shuffled some papers around on his desk and went to work. He delved into the work and used it as a cornerstone for his worries. He filled out some paperwork, and slammed his hands on his desk. "Dammit." He yelled. He went to the police break room. Eames said to her boss, "I've never seen him like this." She shook her head, and went back to work. She sighed.