Death in the Afternoon

There is a child upstairs.

I work in an office building. There are all kinds of businesses. Shrinks, shills, real estate types. Storefronts for mafia types maybe. Jack Bauer fronts. Who knows. I don't. There are lots of offices that are always empty. Some where people only come in at night.

We're on the main floor. I don't know who's upstairs from us. But once a week, it happens.

Someone brings their kid in.

How do you know this, you might ask.

Because he runs.

He runs up one hall and down the other. He pounds his feet as he runs. Just like Prefontaine. He's in training for a marathon, I think. He never stops. He's been up there now for about three hours. Back and forth. Forth and back. He'll stop for a moment and you think he's gone. No. He's just having some water. Refreshing himself.

Sometimes the stops are longer. Those are for Lunchables, presumably.

I hate this child. I hate this child with the firey passion of a thousand suns, as Willow would say. I can hear his footsteps in my dreams. Following me. Chasing me through the corridors of this building. I flee. I cannot get away.

Oh my God, I need a beer and it is only 1:49 in the afternoon.