Unpromised Home

an unfortunate flair for the dramatics

'in which you consider life'

You let out a sigh, lacing your ankles for what must be the umpteenth time that afternoon. When America told you to follow him around you did not expect this many meetings that he had squashed into a single afternoon. This had to be the tenth building that you had walked into now. How much longer is this going to take?

You stare up at the clock on the opposite wall, droning out the boring chatter between America and the other bussiness man. The second hand ticks and ticks and ticks, tracing around the circle in its never-ending race of repetition. You resist the urge to groan loudly. You were so bored. This meeting had been nothing but a mindless game of ping-pong, the point ricocheting around the room in a restless tirade of unintelligent speech.

The room finally falls into a break of silence. You glance over at America as he stands from his rolling chair. He sighs wearily, clearly as sick of partaking in the conversation as you are listening to it. The other man takes his leave from the room.

"Well..." You begin, standing from your own chair.

"Just... Don't."

"Fine..." You fiddle with the fabric on the inside of your pockets.  America snaps the clasps on his brief case shut, pulling it off the table. It thuds off the surface, swinging as America begins walking out of the room.

You yawn loudly as the door slams shut. At least he's taking his mood out on something inanimate for once, instead of some poor unfortunate soul. You wonder how many people have been subjected to America's wrath unknowingly? You could see the number being somewhere in the triple digits.

Pushing the door open, you step into the overly bright hallway. The shadows cast onto the floors and walls were starkly defined with the light of the setting sun. The deep gray lines of window frames (and the body of a certain grumbling country) lay unobstructed on the plaster white walls that each of these companies seem to have.

You glance over at America, listening to him grumble, "A goldfish would do a better job understanding what I'm saying than him."

"I thought we weren't complaining?"

"We aren't" America pushes off the wall he was leaning against. Your shoulders slump as you watch him walk down the hall. He disappears around a corner before you follow after.

His inaudible greivances continue down the stairs and out the building. You trail after him, watching as he fumbles with the annoyance that grew over the last meeting. His hands constantly fidget between locations. Running through his hair, lingering awkwardly in the air, clenching into tight fists.

"Really, how hasn't that company gone under...?"

"Daddy's money?" You pipe in, rolling your eyes at America's incessant complaining.

"...Maybe."

"I..." You sigh, pulling your hands from your pockets, "I was joking."

"No. No..." The country mumbles, "You have a point..."

You sigh again. Large swaths of crowds bumble around the two of you. The sky was darkening further by the second, a slow plummet towards the yellow illumination of the street lamps.

It was cold without the sun hanging above you. The air was turning frigid and bitter, nipping at any portion of your exposed skin. Your hands return to your pockets, as you glance out to the street.

You bump shoulders with more than a few people. The tide of traffic pushes against you. The swaths of movement swallows your body. Your vision shrinks, darkens, limiting itself as you persist in your resistance against the crowd. As moving surroundings dwindle, your vision returns to you the expanse of sidewalks and towering buildings.