The Burning

Waiting is tough. Too many psychical elements are trying to expose themselves when you have committed yourself to the burdensome task. Waiting, in many regards, feels like boredom, yearning, and torpor trying to vie for your attention. At least that is the way I define it. Many other people would strongly disagree with me. That is okay. They know nothing anyways. The elevator comes. The wait is over. Boredom and yearning dissipate, but the torpor is still there, alive and kicking like a testicle-tied mule. The doors swing open. There she is standing—curvaceous, elegant, hair as shiny as silk. I have nothing to say. When listlessness and loneliness have you in the throes of dysfunction, you don’t have much to say to a beautiful woman. The intimidation factor is too high. Sweat leaks out of the pores. Unmistakably, you don’t have a chance. I get in. I press number twelve. Questions arise: What floor will she get off on? Does she have a better paying job than I do? What color does she like the most? Then something miraculous happens. The woman sneezes. I say, “Bless you.” Perfect! Now we can communicate. Now I can get somewhere. This encounter shows potential. But then the unspeakable happens. The elevator doors open to the ninth floor, and on steps a man who hugs her, and kisses her softly on the lips. Now the hellish reality of my life hits me in the face. Although I am not bored, I still feel languid; and now, creeping in from the corner of my mind, is yearning. For three more floors I will yearn for both her body and the end of the ride. The feeling will be poignant and painful. The sweat will sting. Waiting will seem too torturous for this affliction of mine. When I finally get off on the twelfth floor, I will round the corner to a cubicle tucked away in a cluttered corner. People will walk by me like I never existed. I will think about her until the day is done. My body temperature already seems too high.