Offices are all about window size. The more windows, the higher the position and greater the salary. In this spirit the office was built on the top of the building. It sat like a squat toad on a grey weathered fence post. All six walls of the office were glass, one big window. He was witnessing one of the strangest phenomena, that were rare even in the most temperamental areas. Rain was falling on half of his city, while sun bathed the other with dying rays of the evening.
The water streamed down the water spouts from where it had pooled on the roofs. It had started as a light sprinkle; the kind that smells of must and heaviness hours before the rains starts to patter. Its slow increase let none be caught unaware in its flow, but most stayed out to savor its cleansing. Children now scream and giggle as they watch the rain drop into the puddles, creating rings that overlap. Soon they will stomp in the puddles, sending their own ripples that devour all others. The muck of the streets is swept away into the puddles and storm drains and carried out of sight. The old watch and revel in the freshness of it.
He can join them. It would not do for one of his stature to prance in the spring rain. He stands in front of his west wall. The storm has now moved, marching towards the sun, conquering its light before it is willing to give it. The line so decisive, like watching a puddle of tar on whit cement spread. It blankets the sky in a deepening shade of grey.
He fidgets with the brown tweed coat that sits dustily on his shoulders. Turning his back to the window and facing his window. The dehumidifier hums, sucking away the heavy warmth. On the desk of chrome, glass, and jet-black plastics sit plans. Plans for the future hospital. Plans for the schools. Plans for a country. The rebellion is over. Hundreds of years of destruction and chaos ended by the traitorous actions of a few. The ringleaders had been questioned, giving important information. A few had killed themselves by unknown means, but enough had feared their death more than their pain.
The man in the dusty tweed shudders, and sighing sits down in his large leather throne. It could vibrate, it could rotate. Probably do anything but give warmth. The office was dry: steel and plastic don’t keep much heat.
New schools. New roads. So much money now that tanks no longer rolled down streets, tearing up the asphalt like paper. That needed fixing up as well. A few minutes have passed, and all he has done is sigh and pushed around a few papers. The window again. The black has conquered sun, the line of dark rolling clouds past the horizon. The rain pattered on the glass walls as he stands there watching the rain trace paths down the glass. They create roads as they drip down, merging and entwining as gravity takes affect. They make a network of blurred trails that block the view of the city.
"Water" by Robi DeBell.
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