I turned from the window feeling hollow again, but uncertain, agitated, not knowing what I’d done. There was nothing else I could do, or could have done; I released myself, followed the pattern, went to bed. What’s done is done. Although I had no reason to expect it, I did sleep. I awoke a little before dawn. For the first time, I saw the sun come up over the town, and it was only this gradual intensification of light that gave any indication that a new day had begun. I wondered if the town had somehow miraculously depopulated during the night, leaving me inexplicably alone. Nothing stirred. There was certainly no dawn chorus, no whir of traffic. No sound at all, not even wind. What’s done is done. I had the impulse to clap my hands, or to make some other sudden noise, just in case I had mysteriously gone deaf overnight, but I stifled it at once. It wasn’t for me to break the quiet. Besides, I had heard the faint noises my feet made on the floor, the indistinct clicks and taps of plates and cups as I must have eaten something. I wasn’t hungry, and there was a sort of taste, or perhaps only a texture, in my mouth, that suggested I’d eaten. I looked at the clock. Time to go to work. What’s done is done.

I drove into work feeling a little sick. My hands and feet went cold at once. I maneuvered the car through traffic in the usual way, changing lanes in all the same spots, at the same times, by the clock. As I made my way along surface streets, my nerves went wild. As I entered the building, I was seized by an impulse to run, to cry aloud, that took a moment or two to suppress. Confronted by the elevator, I struggled to swallow, and I couldn’t look up, so when I saw you, I saw you, at first, without seeing your face, which came a moment later. Then I saw your face, as you passed me without a word. There was no sign of recognition there. Nothing familiar. You had the face of a stranger once more, and your eyes were not special any more.

So, then one knew. One worked. One conducted oneself appropriately and worked efficiently. The numbers on the clock went through the regular phases of their daily variations. Then the day ended, and one went home.

My Hand of Glory

My Hand of Glory