By Omri J. Luzon
Sitting here in this pointless office, I wander in my mind to different places, different times, different worlds. Somehow it feels like the world is trying to erase my ambition, creativity and ability to touch other people. I donâ€™t know what to do with myself anymore, it is frustrating to not think that you are a machine, typing and pressing gray buttons to the rhythm of the ticking clock.
Some low whispered empty conversations, annoying mechanical phone rings, the night is falling down so fast you canâ€™t even feel it coming. The windows are so dark you cannot see the real difference between day and night, itâ€™s all the same here, all the same.
A girl approaches me, bends a little on my desk, smiling. She says sheâ€™s from Human Resources, wants to interview me about the workers conditions. I nod as I log off my user and detach of the keyboard. She leads me into a small room, round table, two chairs and a little laptop sitting quietly, humming to itself.
She asks me about my work, my tasks, responsibilities and ambitions. I reply, noticing her hand slowly crawling towards mine. The paycheck, the bonuses, her fingers are on mine, the breaks, the inter relationships, her lips against my neck, the attitude of the management, the annual reports, her tongue is in my ear, the neon lighting, the softness of my hands.
She takes her shirt off, take my pants off; I close my eyes and listen to the clock ticking, just as if Iâ€™m typing on my keyboard. Thereâ€™s no going back now, I know, from here on itâ€™s a one way street, a path I never wanted to explore. She is on me now, kissing me passionately, praying in my ear, saying my name, moan.
I sit at my car, hands on the wheel. The engine is turned on, murmuring, complaining on the weather. I shouldnâ€™t go homeâ€¦I really shouldnâ€™t go home. Driving down through rain and smoke, a cigarette tucked between my fingers, my eyes grow tired. Itâ€™s not the time, I tell myself as her lips kiss mine, itâ€™s not the time for dreaming. The traffic light turns green, I pump the gas, the cars are moving. Eyelids grow heavy, her fingers on my chest, left palm against the back of my neck. The traffic light turns green, I pump the gas, the cars are moving. Itâ€™s time to go. My eyes are asleep, the car is off the road, and I wonder what day it is.
Omri J. Luzon is a 28 year old writer from the too-hot Israel. Omri started as an editor for the radical music magazine First Born; his pieces were published through magazines like New State Magazine, Spark Bright, Distinct Literature, and others. Currently he works on a Masters degree in Literature and promoting Mindless Echoesâ€”his international rock band.