From work, by now, the father knew, there was not time enough to return home. His last trip there and back had required more than a quarter of a day—though really the father could no longer remember how long a day was these days—time was simply time. As soon as he pulled into his driveway, he’d have to turn around and head to work again. He hadn’t even turned the car off, and still clocked in more than an hour late, an infraction for which his wages would be heavily penalized. He’d been so zoned then, that last time leaving, he’d not seen the black object on the neighbor’s yard grown even larger, edging out into the street, so large you couldn’t even see the neighbor’s house behind it.
During this last drive he’d felt his eyes forcing themselves closed stuck on the highway, and for long distances with his eyes closed he drove and drove.
Days were weeks and weeks were days inside the father. At least that’s what the banner along the longest office hallway said, black text on white paint right outside his cubicle:
DAYS ARE WEEKS AND WEEKS ARE DAYS INSIDE YOU
Looking too long at the words’ letters in relief would cause the father to go gooey—soft umbrellas in his thighs.
The father had never seen another body on his hallway, though he could hear them through the walls: typing, typing, breathing, eating, stuff.
God, he was hungry, the father realized, in third person. Tacos! Meat! Though there wasn’t time enough to take a break now, the father knew. No, he had this box that gave the light out, which he must attend to, into which he also sometimes typed.