[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment- On Schedule Edition

This is based on a dream I had a while ago. Not really a writer, but I decided to put it down on paper anyway. 
 
 
 & amp; nbsp; 
 
 
 The office was small and poorly lit, and the clock above the door ticked obediently, counting the seconds with perfect precision. Mahogany overwhelmed the cramped room, from the large desk to the colossal bookcases, towering in a threatening manner. The trapezoidal office was stuffy and tepid, and the light from the window was obscured by the piles of books and papers. The floor was a mess, littered with documents and blueprints and empty bottles of liquor and a shattered glass absinthe spoon lay abandoned in the corner. The claustrophobic office was still and silent, and the Man in the Black Suit sat at the desk, glasses on, handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket, silver fountain pen in hand. A small replica of a Rembrandt painting hung above one of the bookcases, and there was a dark red winestain in the corner of the canvas. 
 
 A faint knocking came at the door. 
 
 “ Come in. ” 
 
 The thin man stepped inside, ducking under the doorframe as his feet touched the carpet. 
 
 “ Nice to see you again. ” 
 
 “ Mm. ” 
 
 “ Sit, please. ” 
 
 He pulled back the leather chair that sat opposite the desk and bent down to sit. The Man in the Black Suit slowly poured gin into a glass for him until he held out his hand to stop. The ice in the glass cracked as he poured. They sat in silence for a little while, drinking. 
 
 The thin man set his glass down and reached for a book that caught his attention. 
 
 “ You wrote this? ” Looking at the cover. 
 
 “ Yes. ” 
 
 “ It says here, ‘ Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. ’ Isn ’ t this a bit outdated? ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t think a Nobel Prize goes out of date. ” 
 
 “ Well, what about that? ” Pointing to a certificate from some extinct college. “ Do you really still think yourself a doctor? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. ” The Man in the Black Suit resumed writing. 
 
 “ What are you going to do? ” 
 
 “ What do you mean? ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t know. After. When you ’ re done writing. ” 
 
 “ You mean when I retire. ” 
 
 “ I suppose. ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t know. ” 
 
 “ Okay. ” 
 
 The thin man set the book down on the table. 
 
 “ When ’ s the last time you went outside? ” 
 
 “ Me? I can ’ t remember. It ’ s been a while. ” 
 
 “ You should come to the café with me tomorrow evening. There ’ s a waitress there who I ’ m sure would love your work. ” 
 
 “ Maybe. ” He set the pen down. “ I find myself less willing to leave here every day. I ’ m getting used to it. There ’ s something comforting about this little space. Helps me think. ” He leaned back in the tall chair. “ I might still go. ” 
 
 “ You really should. ” 
 
 “ What if I didn ’ t? ” 
 
 “ I would go if I were you. ” 
 
 “ But you ’ re not me. ” 
 
 “ No. ” 
 
 “ You don ’ t understand the way I think. There are bigger things out there than…this. ” He gestured around the room. “ The world will go on without us, so what ’ s the point? We live our lives down here, but then there ’ s the ceaseless march of the universe. ” He paused and chuckled, very quietly. “ I read that in a book once. I really do think it ’ s true. ” 
 
 The silence after his words was unsettling. He filled his glass while the thin man stood. 
 
 “ I wish I could stay longer, but I have to be somewhere in a half an hour. I would very much enjoy your company at the café tomorrow, if you would be willing. Good morning. ” 
 
 He pushed the chair up against the desk and turned to leave and the pendulum on the clock fell as he walked out and knocked him out cold as he fell to the floor dead and dissipated into thin air. 
 
 The office was small and poorly lit, and the clock above the door ticked obediently, counting the seconds with perfect precision. 

