The Muse
THE MUSE
Rick had a strict rule: no whisky before noon. But he didn't trust his clock. It said ten past nine but it had been wrong before. The second hand was moving at some speed that didn't feel like seconds. Rick compared it with his pulse. They seemed to fit, but what did that prove maybe Rick was dying. It felt like noon. It felt like he was dying.
It was raining outside, thick bubbling panes of water overlapping on the window's glass. But inside the office it was hot. Rick had frozen all through last winter: holes in the ceiling, drafts through the floor - greeting clients in a balaclava. It hadn't been good for business. This winter he'd sworn to do things better. He'd gotten himself a heater. It took up most of the wardrobe space. When Rick put his coat away, a fierce wall of electric-scented hot air billowed out at him. He probably should have put the heater in the main room; but he was embarrassed. He had a reputation to uphold. He wanted to look his best for clients. He didn't want a broken, bargain heater to be their first impression.
Still - last time he'd turned the heater off, he couldn't get it working again for a week. So now Rick didn't touch it. He sweated and drank water and made numerous trips to the toilet down the hall. On dry days he opened the window. But today was wet, and dark, and even at nine fifteen or at noon the room was sweltering. Rick mopped his armpits with his handkerchief, and wondered how long he'd make it before opening the whisky.
Does Rick:
Rick had a strict rule: no whisky before noon. But he didn't trust his clock. It said ten past nine but it had been wrong before. The second hand was moving at some speed that didn't feel like seconds. Rick compared it with his pulse. They seemed to fit, but what did that prove maybe Rick was dying. It felt like noon. It felt like he was dying.
It was raining outside, thick bubbling panes of water overlapping on the window's glass. But inside the office it was hot. Rick had frozen all through last winter: holes in the ceiling, drafts through the floor - greeting clients in a balaclava. It hadn't been good for business. This winter he'd sworn to do things better. He'd gotten himself a heater. It took up most of the wardrobe space. When Rick put his coat away, a fierce wall of electric-scented hot air billowed out at him. He probably should have put the heater in the main room; but he was embarrassed. He had a reputation to uphold. He wanted to look his best for clients. He didn't want a broken, bargain heater to be their first impression.
Still - last time he'd turned the heater off, he couldn't get it working again for a week. So now Rick didn't touch it. He sweated and drank water and made numerous trips to the toilet down the hall. On dry days he opened the window. But today was wet, and dark, and even at nine fifteen or at noon the room was sweltering. Rick mopped his armpits with his handkerchief, and wondered how long he'd make it before opening the whisky.
Does Rick:
You have 2 choices:
- Sit entirely still, listening to the dim electric hum of the heater counterpoint the steady but arrhythmic drum of rain on glass.
- Stand slowly, casually, keeping his cool in his own company, and slowly, with stiff strides, walk over to the window, where the still-dim day peers back at him, impassive.