The Life and Times of One Second
The teenage employee twirled a pencil in his hand; chin rested on his palm. A bored expression on his scruffy, unshaven face and a glazed look in his eyes, he seemed almost comatose. As the white clock on the wall strained to pull its second hand past the twelve, his head slipped a fraction of an inch down his hand. In a small puddle on the floor he could see it was a bright, sunny day. The snow was melting in the afternoon sun, yet the temperature was low, giving a mixed feeling of both a windy chill and cozy warmth.
As he stared at that small puddle on the ground, a deep sense of longing welled up inside him. To go forth and escape this cruel, cement-lined cell became his dream, his obsession. He must think of some excuse, some reason to leave his confinement. It was not the isolation, for he didn�t mind being alone with his thoughts. It was the complete lack of objects with which to interact that ate at him. Millions of ideas thrust themselves into his head, each one more ingenious than the last, all achieving his goals of evasion. His glazed eyes turned reflective in a far-away look as he dreamt of freedom.
The second hand continues its prolonged journey past the twelve, seemingly pushing its two double A batteries to their max. His head falls another fraction of an inch. The hand crawls across the expanse and slides into place just past the twelve with an audible click. The noise reverberates throughout the room, bringing the employee back to the present. His eyes come back into focus and settle on the small puddle. Though he could not be completely sure, he could swear that the water shook ever so slightly from the sound.
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