Sad Black-and-White Eyes: Episode One

The saddest man in the world could not be consoled by the hands resting on his shoulder, though they were the young hands of a woman who smelled vaguely of cinnamon. Behind him he could hear voices shouting, things being thrown, the volume of the sound somewhat dampened by the office door. He waited for the door to open, for the calm after the storm to ensue. But it raged on and on, the voices only holding for a second while a lamp was knocked over to mark a climax in the movement.

And John could not look into the face of the woman who smelled like cinnamon, could not say to her face what he wanted, because in someways he was happy for the fight. He was frightened, but he liked the feeling. The uncertainty seemed to lock time in tension-filled moments. The release would only heighten the experience, because it would remind him of feelings he had long become used to.

And in the spare seconds before the battle was won, he returned to doing something that he had not done for years: he said a prayer to the Old Man he envisioned in his head, the spiritual papa that rested in some alternative dimension, some strange incarnation of Christianity that had formed through watching episodes of Star Trek while doing Bible study.