C'est L'est

He sits behind his desk. The rain patters against the window as the streetlights outside create white squares with black shadows that flow sinuously down. He pours another shot out of the brown bottle of liquor. The lights are off. His hand appears pale white as it gently picks up the glass by the rim. He downs the liquid, maneuvering his hand artfully out of the way of his nose as he tips the glass into his expectant mouth. The sound of his swallow stands out against the consistent, erratic rain that beats down on the building. He sets the glass down in front of him. The empty glass now appearing slightly white against the grey, lightless desk. With his other hand he grasps the bottle. Snow over muddy water. He rests his hand there and remains motionless for an instant. A noise beyond the door. His free hand instinctively goes to the top right drawer to grasp the .45 millimeter. Caught between the sickening brown bottle and the horrifying metallic-silver gun. His arms are locked in place. He is vulnerable down the middle because he is divided. He waits. Quietly, darkly without reflecting a lumen of emotion. A dark shadow eliminates the word "detective" spelled backwards. His hands are ready. The air around him feels like water. Blue, dark, endless, smothering. The water becomes still. Suddenly, the room becomes a torrent and the atmosphere is violently upheaved by the opening of the door. His finger on the trigger, he doesn't need to wait to breathe.

"Bad time?" Rex Murphey says as he pokes his head through the door. His face stands out against the bluish-grey of the wall behind him and the ebony of his shadow behind the window in the office door. His face appears slightly illuminated. It acts like a lighthouse. It begins to burn out all other things in the room due to its radiance. He almost has to squint. He eases his grip on the .45 but not on the bottle.

"Yeah, it is" he says.

"Should I come back?" Rex asks with a twinge of pain in his voice.

"Yeah. Come back tomorrow" the words are almost smoke that billow out of his mouth. He is barely visible from across the room.

"Okay. I'll come back tomorrow then" Rex closes the door and it nearly causes his head to explode from the cacophony it creates. When the violating noise subsides he is left alone.

The rain continues to drum its steady, yet unpredictable beat against the window. Creating black shadows that compete for mediocrity with the whites and grays that occupy the room scape.

"Rex, you asshole" he thinks, "I was just starting to get ready for something good there".

He releases the gun and removes his hand from the top right drawer. The bottle retains its companion. He uses his other hand to pour himself another shot. The tinkle of liquid into glass ever so slightly disrupts the harmony of the room. The brown ever so slightly draws attention to itself in the midst of the forgetful background.

"There, that's better"