Splurge
John sat at the keyboard, his fingers numb. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but he knew that it was important that he be here. It was a confusing time for him; he'd lost all direction since he'd lost his job, but that didn't mean that he'd stopped suffering the malaise of the workplace: the lack of energy, the tingling running along the backs of his hands, the inability to sleep, the abject loneliness, only this time without the excuse of lack of available time to soften it.
He'd considered taking up drinking to pass the time, even strip-bars and prostitutes, but he knew that he'd just be throwing money away to be just as bored and probably sickened to boot.
Perhaps he should kill someone, just to feel a new experience. Or rob a bank. Or just pick a fight with a stranger. He'd always been fascinated by the old men that talked about the fights they'd had when they were younger, as if they'd lived more fully than John ever would. He imagined splitting his knuckles on a stranger's chin and spitting a couple of teeth into his face, watching the blood glue the ivory fragments to a hostile cheek and realised that he was kidding himself. At the first sign of trouble he'd be running or going foetal; not bad strategically, but unromantic.
Perhaps a visit to a gym or a run around the block? No doubt followed by a meal of five fruits and vegetables, with a spot of brown rice and some lean chicken or fish? Without looking John knew that his fridge contained less than quarter of a pint of milk "on the turn", two sausages and a lemon. He wasn't a nutritionist, but he could work out that those weren't going to combine healthily. Not even if he still had some bread left.
Once again John sat guiltily, wondering what he was doing. He imagined that he'd been brought into existence for a purpose, but the neither he nor his creator could say what it was any more. Happiness, children, good works, an eternal legacy, none of these looked likely unless he could find a magic lamp containing a genie that had managed to keep up with the finer points of a quantum universe and modern ethics.
John rubbed his temple fretfully. What to do? He cracked his fingers, feeling vaguely guilty about rheumatism or arthritis, whichever he was courting, rapped a staccato on the table with his fingertips, then followed up with artillery-blasts from his knuckles.
TV? Music? 'Phone? No he really needed to do something active. Housework? A project?
John sat at the keyboard, his fingers numb. Paralysed by the freedom to be alone, a gift that keeps on taking.
He'd considered taking up drinking to pass the time, even strip-bars and prostitutes, but he knew that he'd just be throwing money away to be just as bored and probably sickened to boot.
Perhaps he should kill someone, just to feel a new experience. Or rob a bank. Or just pick a fight with a stranger. He'd always been fascinated by the old men that talked about the fights they'd had when they were younger, as if they'd lived more fully than John ever would. He imagined splitting his knuckles on a stranger's chin and spitting a couple of teeth into his face, watching the blood glue the ivory fragments to a hostile cheek and realised that he was kidding himself. At the first sign of trouble he'd be running or going foetal; not bad strategically, but unromantic.
Perhaps a visit to a gym or a run around the block? No doubt followed by a meal of five fruits and vegetables, with a spot of brown rice and some lean chicken or fish? Without looking John knew that his fridge contained less than quarter of a pint of milk "on the turn", two sausages and a lemon. He wasn't a nutritionist, but he could work out that those weren't going to combine healthily. Not even if he still had some bread left.
Once again John sat guiltily, wondering what he was doing. He imagined that he'd been brought into existence for a purpose, but the neither he nor his creator could say what it was any more. Happiness, children, good works, an eternal legacy, none of these looked likely unless he could find a magic lamp containing a genie that had managed to keep up with the finer points of a quantum universe and modern ethics.
John rubbed his temple fretfully. What to do? He cracked his fingers, feeling vaguely guilty about rheumatism or arthritis, whichever he was courting, rapped a staccato on the table with his fingertips, then followed up with artillery-blasts from his knuckles.
TV? Music? 'Phone? No he really needed to do something active. Housework? A project?
John sat at the keyboard, his fingers numb. Paralysed by the freedom to be alone, a gift that keeps on taking.