Vincent looked longingly into Naomi's eyes. Flurries of snowflakes danced around her, trapping itself in the stitching of her newly knitted sweater. The Sun peeked from a part in the heavens, casting its gaze upon Naomi’s delicate features. Her hair and body seem to radiate an alluring aura. Vincent reached out to touch her cheek. She winced. Her skin was hot against his icy palm. He admired the glistening crystals caught amongst the thickness of her batting lashes. Her almond-brown eyes averted away from his stare. He slides her left earmuff piece to aside. He leans in close to the exposed ear and whispers:
“You, too, can save 15% or more on insurance by switching to Geico.”
Staring back at him was a headshot of a green amphibian presenting its company's slogan in a charming, Australian accent. He squinted at the cable box, its digital clock displayed "3:13 hours." He shifted his attention to the laptop propped up on his thighs. His laptop screen displayed "5% battery." He let it die. He put the T.V. to rest before the string of late infomercials about gym equipment and high-tech blenders had a chance of convincing him that his current habits wouldn’t suffice for a healthier living. He crawled up to his room then passed out midway between undressing and getting sandwiched in between his 50% polyester-50% cotton bedding. Anyway, at 7 hours 30 minutes, he will have to listen to the screams of an angry timepiece.
Naomi power-walked her way through the world. She sped past the urban artwork bleeding down aged columns, hurried through her checkpoints, and ignored a beggar’s dirty coffee mug seeking donations. She managed to squeeze herself through the closing jaws of a silver serpent and rode through its subterranean passages. clank, clank. She stands in a stomach stuffed to its lining in weary-eyed travelers. She asserts herself in a narrow seating between two zombie commuters. They didn’t stir or move to accommodate her. When she requested for the strangers to “make room,” they both scoffed at her.
“Urrgghh, wwhhhaatt roomm?” the corpse to her left inquired. She remained silent for the remainder of the ride until she was spat out at her stop.
Fairly tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from office #2 goes walking, right past her coworkers. Vincent’s neck cranes from out of his 25 square meter cubical as he observes her enter the copy room. He notes the elegance of her nimble fingers prodding at the copy machine’s buttons. Oh, the smooth manipulation of machinery! Even the grace of her swift heel, striking the obsolete cube until it belched out duplicates of prints, was tantalising.
“When staring at an image for as long as you have, most people think that the next step after admiring its beauty is to create their own art... or at least get to know the artist.” said an imp standing behind Vincent’s chair.
“You think I should meet her parents?” he asked. He scratched the lobe of his ear. His question was answered with a smack to the back of his head.
“Don’t get wise with me,” the imp warned. It dropped a balled up pair of $5s on Vincent’s lap. “Her lunch is in three minutes. Invite her to eat with you. NOT SPICY FOOD.” the imp instructed then left the boy’s side.
“I like odds,” he mumbled to himself as he unravelled then stuffed the $5s into his pleather wallet. There was a folded $3 already inside a pocket flap.
Fairly tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from office #2 goes walki--
“Would you like to have lunch?” he asked. She stops mid stride.
“With whom?” she replies back. She didn’t bother to face the voice, but remains in sprinting position; Her heels hold her potential energy still, like starting blocks embedded in a synthetic track; Her eyes fixed on what’s ahead; Her fingers clutching her baton-shaped stack of loose leaves.
“Me. If you want to,” he answered.
“I don’t want to,” she said then fled from him.
“Your lost! NOT ONE LIKE YOU ANYWAY," the imp proclaimed.
Vincent retreated back into his cubical. On his CPU screen is a novel he has been writing during his receses for the past month. He read the opening line to himself:
“Lady-killer Mr. Handsome looked longingly into office girl's eyes. Flurries of snowflakes danced around her, trapping itself in the stitching of her newly knitted sweater.”
He clicked, dragged the cursor across 15 pages of romance, then hit backspace.