Fired. I was fired from my dream job, my wife divorced me, and my father fell ill. Needless to say, I felt somewhat depressed. With no where else to go, I turned to my old friend Bruce.
I rang the doorbell. I hadn’t seen Bruce in over ten years now. I wondered how he was. He probably changed a whole lot since I last saw him.
Bruce opened the door.
Well dang, he didn’t change at all. Five foot eight, brown hair, empty eyes. Same old Bruce. Didn’t grow taller or any extra fingers at all. I rubbed my hair. I was only in my early forties, but I already had a few gray hairs.
Bruce looked over me with his empty eyes, and must have immediately saw the heavy sadness in my face, nevermind the sign I held saying “:(”
I followed Bruce inside his home, still rubbing my hair. Maybe I should dye it.
Bruce had a nice house. It was small, but still very nice. The wooden floor sparkled, and my feet glided smoothly over its surface. I felt an urge to slide across the floor, but I controlled my animal instincts. I am a dignified man, after all.
I flopped down on a large, brown sofa. Bruce had the nicest couches. This one felt so soft, I felt like I was sitting on grade A cotton candy made by child laborers in third world countries. I let out an extremely audible sigh. To express to Bruce just how sad I was, of course.
But he didn’t hear, since he went into the kitchen earlier. He returned holding two mugs, with steam wafting out. Oh boy, hot chocolate?! He handed one to me.
Just green tea. Bruce was a big fan of green tea. I liked it too, but I much preferred something sweet. Like the blood of my victims.
So Bruce and I sat in silent contemplation. We just sat there, together. Bruce didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Just sat. Me and him. Or maybe it was him and I, I forget. My grammar isn’t that great.
We sat together in silence for a long time, and I reflected about my troubles and despairs.
Then I finished reflecting, but I didn’t feel it was right for me to stand up after sitting in silent companionship for so long. So I sat there longer, drinking my tea.
It occurred to me, that if all this took place in a novel, my silent meeting with Bruce would make a great metaphor. Or maybe a symbol.
I reflected about this. Maybe a symbol would have a deeper meaning than a metaphor. But what would it symoblize?
I opened my mouth to ask Bruce for his opinion, but that would ruin the silent moment. Suddenly, it became clear to me. Life was throwing me another challenge, and I had to figure out why I was sitting there, not talking.
Performing a literary analysis on my own life in present wasn’t too easy.
I felt a compression in my gut. I was about to release my pressure, when I realized that would also ruin the moment. So I clenched my buttocks, and preserved the thoughtful, reflective atmosphere.
Then it occurred to me. That was another symbol/metaphor. I just avoided a catastrophe. Maybe it was foreshadowing something, something dangerous. Something dangerous, like say…
With a quiet, but still audible noise, Bruce farted.
I put my pocket mirror away into my pocket. I was done reflecting.