The Wait

The room held a slight chill. It trickled along any exposed skin. It wasn't cold enough for shivering and gooseflesh. Wasn't warm enough to be comfortable and eventually induce sleepiness. He thought that it was intentional. The light was dim which made the overhead light above the wooden table he was sitting at seem brighter. Though he didn't remember it being his intention, he hadn't had any in the haphazard furnishing of this space, it brought to mind an old tv police procedural. He felt interrogated just sitting here.

'You can’t prove a thing.' The thought echoed in his mind for awhile. His eyes roamed about in search of some distraction. The scratches in surface of the table were his, so his eyes floated over them. 'Mindfulness...' He focused in on them trying to connect to this moment yet there was nothing *in* this moment. The scratches were faint. They held no emotion. They hadn't been made in anger, anxiety, excitement or any other strong emotional moment. Mostly just absentminded fidgeting, like now. It was the in between moments like now waiting for life to restart. Old crisis over new crisis yet to begin. His mind had had enough of dissecting the latest body of evidence that was the old crisis. It had been 'put to bed' as they used to say in those tv procedurals. 'You can't prove a thing.'

So he sat in his own self-interrogating dining room and waited for dawn, or a call, or an epiphany. The next crisis: of Faith, of Life, of Love... All which lay in the cold case ashes around him. He got up to turn on the heat. 'Interrogation over, Boss. We can't prove a thing.'