burning room

When we got back to the office that Monday, everything was warm. My copper colored coffee mug, the water bottle, the 1930s era stapler… everything was warm to the touch. It was as if an architect and a chef had put the entire room in an oven, set to “medium warm” Friday night, and allowed it to cook all weekend, this is what the room would feel like on Monday morning.

The walls had a fever. The bone white ceiling tiles brought to mind cremated human remains… I could imagine that they were still smoldering, even after I’d opened all the windows. Cool, crisp air from the windows mixed with the hyperactive boiler’s air to produce a dramatic view: thermal wave of rippling blue sky that resembled the ripples of a Fijian bay.

The room burned like a secret hope, unspoken and ungranted.

Upon walking in, I uttered a silent prayer. "By the whispers of the trees, please watch over me, Brother-Uncle Kifflom!"

I had to wonder if this had some connection to the squirrels that I saw playing near the building, earlier that morning. But I tossed that possibility aside immediately. It was unthinkable.

On a happier note, The National Defense University sent me a huge poster illustrating best practices for bio, chem and "dirty bomb" attacks. I put it next to the Clifford the Big Red Dog poster. Nice contrast.