To accomplish the Herculean art of braiding, I needed to invoke the Muses. A cup of scalding coffee alone wouldn't suffice. It was a prerequisite to guzzle the chalice of creative juice from their altar.
Staying upright on my ladderback chair was a tedious task, especially after an exhausting roundabout of synchronous classes. The seductive undertone of slumber slithered around my oval face and my S-shaped brows. With its entire weight, it pressed itself on my eyelids, tugging the lappet of skin like Venetian blinds. Notwithstanding, I stomached my way through the temptation and turned my Lenovo laptop on. Soon, the blinking cursor of my blank Word document was reciprocating my drowsy stares. The monitor’s glow was the sole light source inside the makeshift study nook of my deteriorating apartment. My metaphorical Venus amid the unforgiving tenebrosity of this Monday night.
The wall clock pointed an accusatory finger on a sleek number: 11:11.
The text message will arrive in 19 minutes.
In the meantime, I contacted my colleague through Skype. Perhaps, a dose of small talk could keep the boredom at bay.
“Hail, Propa-Gandhi,” he greeted.
As for the specifics of our companionship, Minimalism was of supreme importance. I was cognizant of his age: 18-years-old. I was familiar with the hallmarks of his countenance: Hooded, almost graveyard-evoking eyes, a rockabilly quiff, and most notably, a slash running across his sideburn like a crimson San Andreas Fault. That’s about it. But considering how fraudulent and corrupt the art of braiding was, this velvet rope of ambiguity was for the best (which also explains our peculiar nom de plumes).
Apprehension blotted his voice. “Uh, it’s out. It’s out, right?”
“Yes, it’s all over every news outlet. Even Facebook. Even Twitter.”
He nodded in resignation. “All is well. All is well.”
I turned both my microphone and my camera off. Almost impulsively, thru my pixelated screen, I scrutinized Miss Faux like an angel knowing that his demise was imminent. I could sympathize with him; I found it an arduous job to do so. But he knew what he was getting himself into. He flirted with the ingratiating concept of insubordination. Now he has booked himself an exclusive date with death. May his soul be delivered from the wrath of President Doughtart’s death squads.
