In a warehouse space backed into a corner and spitting frustration, he sat cuddling a little pocket sized box with a centered red button. His thumb was holding the circle down. And he was guaranteed that when the button lifted past its clutching point the world would disintegrate into a confetti of asphalt and ribbons of torn asunder undelicious meat.
Sweat dripped from his forehead to a wrinkle of denim.
And his fingernails were a ransom note collaboration of white and pink as the pressure wavered up and down without his thinking.
And the air was stirred by a lone oscillating circular fan.
And the concrete floor was dust slippery and numbed his bones and muscles in turn.
Right now, it was his thumb, but before it’d been his fingers: each one going numb along the line. Then,both palms and both elbows and the balls of both feet and both knees and eventually his ass and finally his chin trying to sleep, which had been particularly dangerous considering the difficult transition from one to another to another to another.
And it’d been how many days now he wasn’t sure because there were no windows and his watch had stopped sometime in the past and he only wore it because his wrist looked naked otherwise.
He’d gotten himself into this thing because a man on the street had sidled up to him and whispered in thin strings: ”Want to see something amazing?” And at the time he had wanted to see something amazing because he’d just lost his job and money was going to be tight and he was only drinking decaf now because his gut couldn’t take anymore of the rough stuff that early in the morning.
He closed his eyes and dreamt that instead of holding the key to the world’s impending exploded implosion that he was gripping his wife tight around her ribs trying to apply pressure to a geographic blank spot that would minimize her pangs of monthly cramps.
Then he dreamt of rolling hills where green grass was candy licking sweet and something in the air made lungs open and clear and money was unnecessary because everyone was just naturally happy and peaceful and good and full of wishes and hopes and dreams and love.
But then his thumb in tired execution slipped from that modest red button and he felt it tremor as it clicked upward. And nothing seemed to change. No sound. No rumbling. No end. But he was too afraid too look outside. Too afraid of what would or wouldn’t be there. So he slept an undisputed sleep on a concrete pillow and dreamt some more of those rolling hills and that peaceful time and that non-existent wife lying in bed fighting a cramping inside.
