You make the coffee, stirring the milk in slowly, the sound of the spoon rhythmically striking the side of the mug, a dull mechanical repetition. They said it was a problem with the wiring, that it all came down to chemistry, an improper balance of salts in a natural battery. A sip of the coffee and quick glance around the kitchen, the cluttered counters, the dishes in the sink, the darkness lurking outside the window, and then it's back upstairs, to the chair, the computer, and the work.
Your bones feel old as you climb the stairs, one hand on the bannister, one hand holding the warm coffee mug, the yawn creeping through your face as you reach the top of the stairs. There are things you've always been confused by, it seems. These things. How to make them fit? How did everything end up at this point, and why now, at this point?
The chair creaks underneath you as you settle back in, holding the warm mug in front of your face. The monitor sits in front of you, the room filled with the hum of the cooling fan on the computer from under the desk. It shouldn't take this long, should it? It should have been done by now. Paul will know something is up. The emails will start in the morning, constant status update requests, until ducking and dodging the questions will take more time than actually not doing the work. You take a sip of the coffee, savoring the taste as it rolls to the back of the throat. Across the street, the light continues to flicker in the room on the second floor of the empty house. Nothing continues to happen.
