A Slice of 8.45 pm

It's night.

Still in his work shirt and a pair of shorts, the Ox squints at the monitor. There are notes to make, a requirement to feed what he hopes are hungry, inquisitive students' minds come tomorrow. The desk is as always littered with scraps of paper, bills and reminders to call someone sometime do something somewhen. The low humming of the partially open CPU mingles with the whoops and whistles coming from the Xbox outside, as his sister navigates Spongebob Squarepants through yet another peril-laden level. It is a comforting sound, one that reminds him he's not alone.

Behind him, on his left: today's clean clothes, more reference material, books. He's had to put Neal Stephenson away for a couple days and the Ox hates having to put away a good book. He realises he may be the ultimate procrastinator, hates it but finds himself lapsing every once in awhile. The open IE windows shine in their blaze of phosphor glory, little words and little diagrams in the neverending tide of information. The Ox knows it's a veritable sea, and that it can be rough, but it's a familiar one with (mostly) friendly islands.

He Alt-Tabs deftly, stripping the screen of their content, hoping that come tomorrow at least some of it will become knowledge. There's still so many things to do, so many questions unanswered. The temptation to just flip over 2 feet behind and find the cool sheets against his body is overwhelming, but he's put this off long enough.

He needs a shower, and bad. The remains of the day cling to his body like a grimy layer of sweat, and the Ox realises it's not only physical. He wants to wash off the confusion, yearning and the hurt, too.

It's night, and the Ox is typing, typing. Though he doesn't dance (and probably can't to save his own skin) he finds himself doing it anyway. He dances for tomorrow.

Whenever it comes. Hail to the King, baby.