Fiction

Todd sits in the bathroom stall at work. He frantically combs his fingers through his hair and begins to pull at it. The beads of sweat pouring down from his forehead are only offset by his eyelids that are blinking a million times a second.

I had just arrived in Paris after spending the past five weeks in Angola managing some offshore drilling rigs.  Shitty job.  After laying down the rules, I got some pushback from the locals.  Not a surprise.  Typical work politics down there.

I had just graduated from college and was waiting for a life-changing job offer. In fact, any job offer would have been nice.

Todd sits nervously in his chair, reading the Italian menu sitting in his sweaty palms. He’s berating himself internally for choosing this place, he doesn’t know how to read or speak Italian.

It's the reason why people sit through funerals, attend weddings, wait expectantly outside delivery rooms—that unnamable presence that accompanies death and birth and the consummation of love. They're all hoping for a glimpse at the infinite. They're all looking for something profound.