9 to 5

Lunch break. A pause in the 9-to-5-rhytm I live by every day; a hitch in the never-ending pulse that makes the hours pass. I don’t even care to look at the others as they slowly rise from their chairs. Wrinkled shirts, coffee stains on khaki pants and endless musings about the weather move towards the cafeteria like a clumsy herd of sheep.

-Quite the rain shower last night, oh yes.

-It’s sunnier than usually this time of year, isn’t it?

-The nights are so cold now; I fear the roses I planted last week will take damage.

Immensely stimulating, I am sure. And yet I cross my fingers every noon, hoping that this might be the day the floor between the cubicles will crack open like a colossal pair of jaws and let them all fall into the blackest depths of earth, let them all be swallowed by dirt and flames and silence. Especially Johnson two cubicles down the hall, with his wheezy breath and long stares.

As the last few members of the herd waggle their way towards the soggy sandwiches and mellow soup, I sigh and lean back. I don’t even think as my hands search through my purse, following habit more than conscious thought as they pull a bottle of clear liquid up and onto the desk. It’s rum today. Thursday felt like a good day for rum.

My throat briefly protests as the liquor burns its way down, but I clear my throat and ignore the strong urge to spit it all out. A few minutes and the fire will spread from the tip of my tongue and engulf everything, with waves of apathy eventually caressing my body, a lulling embrace of indifference tugging at my thoughts.

Work, lunch, work. Annoyance, apathy, annoyance. The 9-to-5-rhytm my heart beats to.