His tie feels too tight today. His new shoes pinch his left ankle. He catches the elevator and wedges himself in with the other pinching ties and tight shoes. Everyone’s eyes are on the numbers lighting up in their proper order. Someone next to him coughs. His stomach flips as the elevator stops on his floor. He steps out sideways and his feet take him to the office at the end of the hall.
Auto-pilot engaged, his feet take him through the door, past the secretaries, printers and the ringing phones to through the break room. His hands grab, pour and mix. Coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other he turns right at the copier. His elbow pushes the second door on the right and his foot closes it behind him. The briefcase finds its place on a chair in the corner of the room next to an artificial tree. He takes his place at his monstrous desk, the leather chair creaks under his weight. Its surface is chilly. He shivers. The computer snaps on with an inane little chorus of digital notes. He sits back listening to the hum of the heater overhead and warms his hands around the little paper cup filled with burnt coffee.
Numbers, lunch, then more numbers.
The neat columns of numbers blur before his eyes. He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. Eyes focus. The buzz of the fluorescent light above has replaced the muffled din of activity behind his closed door. A ray of orange light works its way through the blinds to form a rectangle on the wall. He stands. His body is stiff and his wrists sore form hours of punching in numbers. Three steps and he’s at the window. He pulls the sickly little white cord and the city is revealed behind plastic slats. Through a narrow canyon in the surrounding buildings he can see the setting sun paint the smog filled air rich shades of red, orange and yellow.
The clock tells him it’s 5:45.
His feet take him back to his desk, his fingers find their keys and his works continues itself. Just a little bit more, then I’ll go home. Gotta get a jump on this.
The keys click smoothly, the columns of numbers have produced smaller columns, stacked upon themselves. Streams of numbers boast proudly of revenue. More numbers.
His ears tell him that the pile of papers to his left is rustling. His brain tells him that’s not logical. His peripheral vision tells him the pile of papers is moving. His fingers keep typing. The click of the keys are footsteps on the sidewalk. His ears tell him there is another rustle of papers and a wet thud on the desk. His eyes slide toward the source of this distraction— away from the screen to the base of the pile of papers.
A slick, lime green frog sits looking up at the rows of numbers with black, glassy eyes. Its profile undulated at its throat.
Fingers are still typing. Eyes try to tell brain that there is a frog on his desk. Brain tells eyes that there is no frog there. Eyes double-checking, blink twice and the little creature just sits there, its throat rippling up and down. Fingers are still typing and numbers are still forming their tidy columns on the screen. Fingers want to reach out and touch the little frog, its glossy skin is reflecting the sickly light of the room. Brain keeps the fingers typing the numbers.
Now, ears tell brain that the frog has just made a small, prickly, croaking noise. Fingers hesitate, eyes widen for an instant and mouth is awakened with a quick, shocked smile. Head and neck turn to face the tiny technicolor amphibian. Shoulders follow along with torso, waist and finally, at long last, hands and fingers. Brain shouts at body. Body looks at frog. Frog sits and breathes.
The chair creaks as body turns to face the frog. The frog’s black eyes turn to face him. His finger reaches out slowly wanting to touch the frog. The frog hops a little back toward the stack of papers. His finger is close enough to touch. Finger hesitates. The frog hesitates and turns awkwardly to face him.
His finger meets the frog’s skin between its eyes. Its skin cold and covered in tiny bumps. It is slightly wet, but sticky as if it was getting too dry. Eyes look at the screen and at the numbers then back at the frog. Where his finger had touched the creature is a red fingerprint. The frog’s throat is pulsing more quickly now. The fingerprint fills with more red to make a solid ellipse. The frog’s left leg twitches, its right leg does the same. At the base of the spot, a line begins to form—neon red, it moves down the little frog’s back. It glows in strangely familiar way. Its left leg moves to the left, the right leg moves to the right. Its hind legs press against the surface of the desk.
The line begins to weep red fluid down the sides of the frog. The fluid patters on the desk and lands in tiny pools. The left side of the frog is struggling to move to the left as the right fights to go right. The line grows and the fluid seeps out with more quickly. The pools grow and ripple toward the keyboard and the stack of papers. The frog’s hind legs are tensing and pressing against the desk underneath the red pools.
Ears hear tearing. The frog tenses its hind legs push off from the desk, and it leaps into the air. The left side goes left and the right side goes right. There is a thump and the two halves of the frog land in front of him, pink innards spilling on his papers and pens.
His body jerks sending lightning bolts of pain through his neck. His feet kick under the desk and his eyes try to focus. The animated screen saver is playing on the monitor. He stands, disoriented and shaky.
The clock tells him that it is 10:54 pm. There is no frog.
Feet move to the chair in the corner. Hand picks up briefcase. Feet take him out of the room and auto-pilot is set for home.
