Writing Practice, May 5 2015
Murray dug his ass deep in the bench. He was sick of waiting, and he didn’t want a tan. It blazed and he roasted, and if he had any say he’d never come down to the water in the afternoon. His arms took up all the surface they could. The fish was that big.
The bench creaked under his weight. The back of the thing was painted a different colour than the seat, and both needed redoing. It was too early in the spring. The people who would do this work hadn’t yet been hired. There was still threat of snow, even as the sun cooked Murray as he waited. Murray thought about his cat at home and how he’d overfed it in case he had to wait a long time. He didn’t know what might happen. He left a key with his neighbour, to check on the cat in case he didn’t come home that night.
Murray thought about getting this over with, getting on with his day, going home and watching his new TV, maybe sending Denise a message. He’d watch Denver get destroyed and it’d be fine after three beers. Murray felt a bead of sweat hit his eyebrow. It wasn’t even terribly warm, just deadly bright. He’d call the man if he knew the number. He’d get it over with faster if he could.
Murray looked at his watch. It was all scratched to hell, a cheap timepiece from before everything connected. It barely did what it advertised. It was seven minutes late all the time, and no amount of winding or smashing helped. In the brightness, he could barely make out the time.
“I’m here,” he heard behind him. “Let’s do this.”