The n0n-line@r adventures of Greg Sandusky pt 2

Spring was in full swing.

Even though the thought of trite rhymes were somewhat annoying to him, Greg could not help but agree with the sentiment. Perched several dozen or so feet above the ground, from the confines of the sterility of the office, Greg sought out the nearest window, and absorbed the verdant canopy of trees which nestled two and three story brick homes on calm, residential streets, soon to be filled with the laughter of children. The morning sun right after sunrise was accompanied by air that teemed with a fresh quality about it as he left his house for work. He wanted those sensations to suffuse his soul during the day, and nourish his spirit, to serve as fuel for whatever mindless task from his corporate masters might assail his otherwise good senses.

The thick—well, he hoped it was thick—glass of the office building concealed all but the louder sounds, namely, the heavy construction vehicles that were moving to and fro on the dusty street below. Greg liked to imagine that the sounds of bird song and gentle rustling of the leaves created a more beautiful symphony, and could triumph over the cacophony of machines and construction, over the illusion of progress and industry—this selfsame progress that confined him to this office for much of the day. There had to be some peace in this corner of the city. There needed to be peace. If he couldn’t find it, he would make it. Yes, there was always the sun, and the crisp air. Yes, those would do.

His mind aimlessly drifted, as effortlessly as the gentle breeze stirred the tree limbs below. He mentally retraced his steps, from waking up and detaching himself from the comfort of bed, to his customary bowel movement followed by the inspection for stool color, consistency, shape, and if any blood was in the bowl. There wasn’t. Not today, thankfully. The stirring leaves accompanied the balance of his morning routine. Shower and shave, oh, a sycamore tree. Scrutinizing his chiseled jaw line and blue eyes landed on a mulberry. Gently bending over to kiss his wife goodbye while she still slumber naked in bed, on an elm. As his recollections followed his eyes across the cityscape below, the near whimsy which saturated his consciousness was dissolved instantly.

His chest tightened, and feeling his heart plummet into his bowels, he shook his head for a moment, as if to dismiss the certainty of what he saw, and write it off as a discrepancy. He had the latest upgrades. This couldn’t be a retinal nerve issue, of this he was sure. Yet, for several seconds, Greg’s eyes met the figure standing on the street below-a figure that found home amongst the trickle of school children being waved on by the elderly, smiling crossing guard.

How…did….

Thud.