Out of Time
Dusk falls outside through a corner window in the office. It’s the only source of light, but it now exits just as it entered: ever so softly due to a slow buildup of frost from the light snow. A weird frowning-upside-down smiley face can be made out in the fogged up glass.
The room is adorned with wooden frames of numerous degrees and certificates. Open books of literature and philosophy share desk space next to a dimmed laptop with what appears to be a paper halfway typed on it. Both nurse a cold cup of coffee in its lonesome.
The phone rings.
It continues to do so, each ring somehow echoing louder than the last, before the answering machine finally gets sick of it. No personalization. Just straight to the [bleep.]
Hey, um, not sure when you’ll get this, but we’re all meeting up at the Red Door in like, half an hour, and it would be great if you could make it. All right. Just let me know. Thanks, bye