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Middle-aged wife lusts for husband one fateful morning.
"Whatever. Cooley's out sick today. Here's your assignment. Do this right, 'might even earn a promotion."
Freddy fought the urge to ask what failure meant, but Grady clearly had it in mind.
"Y'do this wrong - well - there's worse work to do here than janitorial."
"'Won't let'cha down, sir." Freddy tucked his assignment, a fresh 8x11 yellow envelope made from heavy stock paper, under his arm.
"...an' Frieda? Y'stop talkin' like that, 'hear? No one here talks like that."
Freddy bowed his head a moment, feeling red warmth in his cheeks. "Yes, sir. Won't let you down, sir."
_ _ _ _ _ _
Time is the fruitless attempt of control - this, these seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years - all which lead a fearful humanity away from their mortal coil.
Time, once defined, cannot be stopped, and is always in motion.
Time, which cannot, and will not ever explain the elusive expanse of an unimaginable eternity.
Time, our enemy, and greatest ally in the struggle to live.
Love, like eternity, is not bound by the constraints of distance, time, or space. Love is, like eternity, unbound."
Freddy reached for the CD player, struggling to find the eject feature, and swerving widely on the road.
He steadied the steering wheel along highway 927, his powder black primer Sentry chugging along.
The two decade old car looked like a child drew it into reality, uneven bumpers, exaggerated wheels, and all.
In all his time, in all his driving - which was usually home, to work, and from - Grady had not once acknowledged his existence. Freddy mopped floors his first year there, before being promoted to mail room, shipping, and receiving, and sorting. The majority of the staff were either sons, or nephews of the editor, young enough men that Freddy knew a real promotion was well out of his reach.
Nepotism at its most absolute.
The old CD player whined in protest a moment, and spat the disk halfway out in a rude buzz of grinding gears. For a moment, just a moment, Freddy feared the CD scratched.
This assignment was a joke. Grady sent him out as a rep to sign some semi-french kid into publishing. For Freddy, the drivel he'd just listened to was a bunch of pseudo intellectual philosophy on love, time, and who really cared?
This was a test. This had to be a test... of course, if it were not, there were worse jobs than janitorial, and he had no doubt Grady would find him one.
Highway 927 was a long stretch of poorly kept road, uninhabited with exception to he, filled with potholes which reminded both he, and his car, that the shocks, and suspension were long gone.
To, and from work. That's what he told the insurance agent when he drove his rolling promise of collision, and destruction into the lot.
Romance. Existential theory was not romance. Grady had to have made a mistake.
No. Grady never made mistakes.
Freddy glanced at the CD player. Music - hell - talk radio, which he hated, would have been fine, right about now. The ride took an ass numbing turn for the worse as the road became more, and more fragmented. Freddy winced at every bump, and dent in the road, as though he were riding along the asphalt bare ass.
He rolled down his window. It stopped half way. Goddammit.
Rolls or cirrus clouds were gathering in the distance. Freddy saw a brief flash of light. A vague rumble spread out across the sky.
God. Damn. It. He reached to roll up his window, and the handle creaked in protest, cracked a little, and came off the door in his hand.
"I can't believe this."
_ _ _ _ _ _
It was true, the car itself being a relic. It got good mileage, but Freddy suspected it had to do with the fact that the majority of the car was gutted out. The back seat, gone. The spare tire, gone. Heater core? Gone. Air conditioner? Gone.
It was a wonder his car was legal on the street, save the fact that both the breaks, and the emergency break worked we