Now At This Moment No.4

I see that my water glass is empty. The only water that is left in there looks like tears clinging to the side of the glass, with a little puddle on the bottom that looks as if it makes up the shape of a country, or more like a small cluster of islands trapped inside a glass ocean.

I reposition myself, folding my left leg over my right. I can feel the thigh stretching itself, the left one, as the rest of the leg spills over the right one, with my left foot being pulled down by gravity. My shoes feel sticky because I'm not wearing any socks today. It's hot and my feet are wet-cool, and the insides of my shoes feel cool-moist. Repositioning my legs now, kicking my feet back and under the seat of my chair. My toes are touching the floor, and my feet feel folded in half, with my heels up in the air doing a headstand—a toestand.

Stretching my back off the back of my office chair that itches my bottom and underneath my thighs, my chair squeaks when I move and sounds like a fart. I lift my left butt cheek up, and tilt my right shoulder down, and out escapes the chair-fart that is actually a squeak—the sound of plastic and metal releasing the pressure that I place upon it. The office chair holds me up. The office chair supports me.

I breath out a breath, realizing that I tend to hold it while I am typing. I might just be unaware of my breathing while I am typing, like I become aware after I use the word just to justify something that just happened. Using the word just is just something that I have become aware of lately, and I'm trying to keep myself from using it too often.

Scratching my neck. The hairs on the back of my head still feel like they are moving, unsettled, itching still, but in a pleasant way. My knuckles ache for me to crack them again. They are practically begging. But like my craving to stop and smoke a cigarette, I realize that I take to cracking them more that I should. It is a bad habit that feels so good. Sometimes I don't realize that I am doing it until I hear the cracks popping all at once, or in little rows. It sounds almost exactly like the clink of my Zippo lighter... no... the little ding of the bell on this typewriter that tells me when I have gotten to the end of the line sounds more like the little clink of my Zippo. My knuckles are definitely more of a cracking or popping sound. All my joints seem to crack and twist as I bend them out of my sitting position. I bend my elbows and the muscles in my arms feel as if they are tearing at the back of my skin—louder around the joints where things have been worn thin.

Pushing my hair back, I see my reflection in the glass of the computer monitor that I have put to sleep behind this typewriter. I pick at my eyes and rub my nose. Scratch my beard. Shift my weight. Now my right leg has found itself crossed over the left. I push my shoulders forward, and tilt my head back, watching my reflection lean in and lift my chin towards the ceiling. My mouth opens and my breath escapes. "I'm watching you."

I tell myself "I'm watching you" without even having to move my lips. I can understand what was said because I said it to myself.

I hear the second hand on the clock ticking in between bursts of tapping on my typewriter. I wonder how many words I am making appear in between the clicks of the clock, but I can't hear the clicking once I start typing.

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