Short Story: Routine

Cold.

He walked across the stage, to the microphone.

"I'd like to thank everyone for coming."

Later that night.

He unloaded the car, dragged in his bags. Sat on his bed. Jet lag. Head in hands. His fingers running through his hair. Or what was left of it.

He checked the answering machine: no messages. He glanced at his personal cell phone. No missed calls. No unread emails. No texts. He tossed it aside. His business phone was lit up like a Christmas tree and was vibrating itself off the nightstand.

The bed was still in the corner.

He brushed his teeth while reading scribbles on the mirror. More rhymes.

When he got up, he made a phone call. No answer.

He made breakfast. Well, raisin bran.

And he went off to work.

As soon as he got into the office, his staff bombarded him with questions. He answered all of them, nearly. Then he went to his own office and shut the door. He checked his email. Lots of email.

At lunch, he walked across the street with the guys to grab a burger. They all laughed and made small talk along the way. At the table, guys told stories about their kids, their vacation plans, their life. He sat silently, interjecting solely to provide laughs, often at his own expense.

When he got back to the office he ran around, helping people out. He was good at that. He was good at his job.

When he got home, he turned on the lights and everything was as he left it. There wasn't really much to leave, he noted.

Then he got on the computer.

At around midnight, he stumbled to bed.

He lay there amongst sheets and pillows, tossing and turning. He kicked his sheets off and screamed. He punched the wall, and then curled into a ball.

The next day, everyone at work had new questions for him, and he answered them all perfectly.