Jasper jose

In the cold recess of an office, he was alone with his mistress.

It was dark, lit only by the dim, flickering screen of a laptop. Murmurs of car engines and police sirens pierced through rain-streaked windows. Meursault could not see past the dark grey skies that haunted the night. The only light that remained in this world was granted by the towering skyscrapers that mottled the horizon. The scent of stale coffee and printer ink—the essence of hard work—clung to the air, and it mingled with the sharp, acrid bite of alcohol.

He sat slouched with a suit jacket thrown over a mahogany desk, his sleeves loose and his shirt a little undone. His tie lay abandoned on the black carpet floors, as if his very person was unravelled. In his hand, he cradled and cherished a half-empty glass, his twelfth of the night. Meursault watched the crimson vintage slosh lazily against the rim. Drops of wine danced about the rim, staining his cuffs. Blood was on his hands. The liquid swirled before the blue light, and it shimmered like molten glass. He was obsessed, as if there were words that would reveal hidden truths—truths that he had long forgotten, memories he had stopped remembering. She was his dearest companion, and amidst his pain, she beckoned to him. It was rare to always have someone there for you.

Wine. How he loved it, and how he needed it. It was a dry warmth that seared in his throat as if it were the comforting throes of a hearth. It dulled the edges of his instincts and unlocked the cage they had made for him. His thoughts carried veiled threats. There was underlying truth that stung and hurt. They had understood him too much.

Emails went unread and finances remained unaccounted. He watched the door as he clutched the wine bottle closer. He feared that there would be a knock. Lights flickered at the threshold, perforating the file cabinets and stale white walls. He flinched, wondering what they would think of him. His wife came to mind, as well as his children and sycophants. They would comfort him and try to ease his suffering, though the idea scared him. One cannot simply create a healthy environment wrought with comfort and expect him to feel happy. It was chronic. He would only eat up their love and regret that their efforts meant nothing. Their resentment would follow. The thought made him despair in his office. And after, he let out a hollow laugh.

Why should I care?

The thought resounded throughout his mind with confusion as he tried to grasp this new perspective. They were nothing more than faceless entities, no more than cogs in a machine just as he was. Every choice life had offered was riddled with latent biases, and every one of those biases stemmed from a cause, and those causes had another before them. It was an infinite regress that comforted him, and he looked to the glass walls, to the streets below. A sea of nameless people scurried to their respective places, fulfilling their routines as per their values which ultimately were not their own. The intricate, symmetrical ballet of repetition told him of an illusion of progress. The world had no ontological meaning, and yet it demanded so much. His wearying revelation left him wanting more.

As the night marched on, the wine bottle became lighter and lighter, each minute another moment stolen from the world. But, as the last few gulps slipped down his tongue, he realized that the bottle had an end. His eyes glazed the email he left open, and he squinted to read the opening.

“On behalf of Finch & Goodman, we regret to inform you—”

They blurred again. The words.

It had been happening more and more now. He had lost his edge—what made him valuable—but he was too frightened to even care. What fresh stress would the email infect his night with? What new burden dared to shackle him more, to stop him from living? He sighed, already searching for another bottle to drown with. Endeavours were for retreating tomorrows. It was easier to let the past march on.

Tonight, he would drink.

Jasper Jose is a writer who resides in Port Coquitlam. He enjoys classic literature, and plays volleyball and basketball. He is also an avid fan of the NBA and wishes for the Warriors to succeed in the playoffs despite their regular season woes.