Work
I push through several heavy doors and walk up into a giant marble lobby. Every morning it looks like a meager parade of drones mopped and polished every surface through the night. Some men are dressed like traditional businessmen. Other men, typically younger, are dressed like the pristine children of traditional businessmen. Women are dressed however they are dressed (it always seems like there are no rules, other than don’t be naked, for them). I see a man with a golf bag strapped to his upper body. Everything about him looks new and clean and unused. Fresh straight-lined haircut, recently tightened and polished facial skin, suit and tie like ink stamps. He is the only man in the lobby with golf clubs. He is confident, but not too showy, with his golf clubs. He is not talking about golf and no one is asking him about golf. I am wondering if my imagination created the golf clubs. He starts walking and I hear the sound of the clubs clacking together. They are real. I start walking faster.
