24 Hours
Warmth bathed his face. The sun kissed the horizon. A yellow car drove by.

Everything was the same.
It was the same as it had been yesterday. It was the same as it would be tomorrow. The world had a simple order to it, and it was a just how he liked it. The neighbors from the apartment next door were helping their children into their backpacks and ushering them out the door, their faces set in wary anticipation of the work day ahead. He gave them a courteous nod, and they returned the gesture. The mailman approached from the other direction, and met with him with his usual cheerful greeting.
“Hello”
“Hello!”
“How are you today?”
“Good! How are you?”
By the time they had reached this point in the pseudo conversation they had drawn even with each other, and as their backs came face to face they both silently agreed that the exchange was over, leaving the question hanging in the air, unanswered. Perhaps the mailman was genuinely good today. Perhaps he was not. But there was something to be said for good manners, and it was best to present a cheery front rather than burden those around you with the troubles and woes of your life.
The trip to the bus stop was a short one, being just a three block walk from his house, straight down Common St. At it the same faces awaited. One of the suits checked his watch as he stood. Another absently fidgeted with his briefcase. A slightly overweight woman in her mid fifties smiled warmly at him, and he returned the smile. He always recognized her by her beige jacket.
“It’s a beautiful day we’re having,” she commented as he took his customary place standing beside her.
“Indeed it is”, he replied in a polite tone. They exchanged several more pleasantries and then fell into expectant silence as the strained exertions of the bus became audible from around the corner, and the businessman began to stir from their morning trance. Everyone’s eyes locked on that street corner in anticipation of that white whale which they all knew from experience would be swinging wide to round that corner any second.
However it was not the bus that caught his eye.
Her dress was yellow with small black polka dots, each about the size of a quarter, which matched perfectly in color the dark raven locks which obscured her face. From the depths of this cascade of waves poked the blossom of a vibrant sunflower. Her dress flowed and bounced loosely from the white belt at her waist as she walked in the opposite direction at a leisurely stroll. She hadn’t a care in the world: nowhere to be, no meeting to attend, no worldly responsibilities attaching weight to her decisions. Her arms swung languidly as she walked, as if at any moment she might reach up to lazily pluck the sun from the sky and take a bite from it like a particularly succulent peach. In a world of concrete, steel, and brick she was a beacon of light, a beautiful butterfly flitting abo-
“Ahem.”
The spell was broken. He snapped his gaze back before him to see the doors to the bus hanging open before him, its gaping maul eager to consume him.
“AHEM.”
Again came the sound of the clearly annoyed man behind him, waiting for his turn to board the bus and begin his own morning commute. Inwardly rebuking himself for his lapse in attention, he quickly apologized and climbed the stairs, swiping his pass on his way to take his usual seat by the window, two rows back from the driver. Still disappointed with himself over his moment of distraction, he busied himself by mentally reviewing his work schedule for the day.
Quarterly reports to file in the morning. Time to grab a quick lunch in the coffee shop next door if I finish those reports on time. Invoices to sign off on in the afternoon. Product review meeting at the end of the day.
123rd Street flashed on the board at the front of the bus as he rose and walked through the isle and down the stairs. As he traveled the block to his place of business he took in the 14 story granite behemoth. It was roughly square shaped, with smaller square windows spaced evenly across each floor. He had always enjoyed the stone buildings more than the glossy glass skyscrapers. Although not flashy, they had a consistent tone about them, rather than those glass monstrosities which could shine as bright as the sun which lit them like a torch, but also as gray as the dreary sky which they stretched out in vain to scrape. Those buildings were slaves to the whims of Mother Nature, and seemed just as transient as her will. His building was permanent.
He reached the familiar doors with the letters PRINTERS INC. boldly etched above the door. Not for the first time he chuckled softly to himself at the unintentional play on words. Walking briskly across the smoothly polished marble floors of the lobby he boarded the elevator and pressed the button marked 7, as he had every Monday through Friday for years. He exited the elevator at his stop and made a right as he headed for his cubicle.
“White!” He turned as he heard the cry from down the hall behind him.
“Hey White!”
“Hello Smith,” he replied “How can I help you?”
“Jones, Johnson, and I were planning on going to the bar for a couple of drinks tonight and we were wondering if you’d like to join us.” He said with a friendly smile.
“I’d love to,” White lied, “but I have a late meeting today.”
“Oh well, some other time then.”
The two parted ways and he continued on his way to his cubicle. He had never found alcohol to be particularly pleasant. Unlike some it had a rather depressing and wistful effect on White, and he detested the lack of control and clouded senses which it imparted. He settled into his padded desk chair and open up the first of the manila folders neatly stacked on his desk. This was his world. This was his element. He flipped through page after page of charts and figures, making notes and jotting down calculations here and there. It wasn’t exciting work, but he was utterly absorbed in it. Everything here made sense. Every number, comma, line, dot, period, etc. all served a purpose. Everything had a place. Everything had a meaning. It was here that he found comfort. He barely took notice as hours passed by, completely engrossed in his work. The hour hand was past north by the time he had picked through the contents of the last folder in the stack.
No time to leave the building for lunch. I’ll have to grab something from the break room.
Stretching his arms out beside him as his stiff legs raised him from the chair, he made his way to that ubiquitous den of laminate, fake plants, and lukewarm coffee found in corporate offices across the nation. Not daring to take his chances with the often contested contents of the fridge which hummed away from the corner, he grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit resting on the table. On the way back to his cubicle he contemplated it. It was bright yellow, with small spots of brown from where it had begun to ripen. He peeled and ate the banana without thinking much of it.
However, something was off now. The fan whirring above which had once offered comforting white noise, like waves crashing on a beach, was now intolerably loud. The drop ceiling which had had a soothing uniformity with its evenly spaced fluorescent lights now seemed to close, as if the whole thing might fall at a moment’s notice. The cubicle became a carefully organized prison. He tried to focus on the invoices he was supposed to approve but it was no use. He found his thoughts wandering away with increasing frequency.
One page he flipped to had a post-it note attached. His eyes defocused as they fell upon it. The words fell away and only the periods remained, dotting its yellow surface in dark black ink. The white page became her alabaster skin as she sauntered through the confines of his mind, never turning: always on the other side of the street, always out of reach. If he could just call out, just get her to turn aro-
“Are you coming White?”
He started and turned his head as his eyes fell blankly upon his coworker.
“I said are you coming to the meeting?” Williams repeated.
“Yes of course,” he replied quickly gathering his things.
But as he followed Williams to the board room he wasn’t entirely there. He gathered himself outside the door and set himself back into a business mindset. There would be time to ponder this strangely infatuating girl after the meeting. He perused the schedule for the meeting as he made his way towards his usual seat at the middle of the table. Glancing up to pull out his chair, he was stopped dead in his tracks.
There, at the center of the table stood a clear glass vase. And in it…
Sunflowers.
“I-I-I’m sorry but I’m feeling very ill today”, he blurted out
“But what about your presen- “, but White was already out the door.
He made a beeline for the elevator, the cream colored walls closing in on either side.
“Hold the door!” he cried. He slipped into the elevator and stood panting with his hands on his knees.

“So you decided to come after all!” he looked up to find the grinning faces of Smith and his other colleagues. “Good for you White!”

At this point there was little he could do to resist and so they all piled into a taxi and headed for Rhinehart’s tap house, at the corner of Park and 23rd. In the cab the other men talked casually, asking about each other’s families, cracking jokes about work or girls and so on and so forth. It was clear that they were friends. This was a type of interaction which White wasn’t used to, and he remained mostly quiet. He had few friends, and he was oblivious to this. Work and responsibility had always taken preference. But now, for the first time, this lack of close relationship, this lack of depth within his interactions, bothered him. For the first time he began to wonder just how much he was missing in life.

“First rounds on me,” Announced the ever cheerful Smith as they passed through the doors and into the warm mahogany interior of Rhinehart’s.

They all slid into a booth as tall glasses of amber topped with foam were set down before them. This time as the conversation flowed White did his best to join in. He threw his opinion into the ring, cracked dirty jokes, and laughed raucously with the rest of them. Glasses emptied. Refills were poured. More strangers wandered into the bar, and the room became warmer.
“So my foot's totally stuck in there right, I’m freaking out, the dog's having a seizure, and I’ve still got half a pie left!" At this point Jones was laughing so hard beer was spurting out his nose.
“Next rounds on me!” White said unabashedly as he slammed his empty glass down on the table before him. He strode across the bar and confidently ordered four more beers, practically yelling to be heard over the chatter of voices in the crowded bar.
“Send another one my way while you’re at it.” If the voice is an instrument than this one would be an entire orchestra. Its melodic, lilting tone flowed through his ear like the sweetest music he’d ever heard, and his heart danced in his chest to its beautiful rhythm. He turned to find the source of the heavenly tune, and his eyes fell upon wine red lips rimming two rows of porcelain. Above this sat two sapphires, too beautiful to insult with some clichéd comparison about the sky or the ocean, for even these paled in comparison to the beauty of this woman’s eyes. If he had not been so absorbed in their depths he may have noticed the flash of yellow which emanated from below this breathtaking visage, and wound its way through the dark frame bordering it.
“Hello”, came the angel’s song, “What’s your name?”
He could only stare, rendered completely speechless in the shadow of her splendor.
“You do have one don’t you? Ya know, a name?” Her teasing tone and sly smile only accentuated her grace.
“Henry”, he finally managed, “my name is Henry.”
“Why are you here Henry?”
“Well,” he began, “a couple of my buddies- “
“No,” she interrupted, “I mean why are you here?” she made a vague gesture at everything around her “Why are any of us here? What’s the point of any of this? Of human interaction? Why do some people have curly hair and others have straight? Are gay people as grossed out by straight people as some straight people are by gay people? Should trees have the same rights as a human being? I mean we’re all living creatures. Is money Good, Evil, or in some moral gray area? I guess it depends on how you use it. Does God care if I pay taxes? The church is tax exempt so I doubt it. Is evolution- ”. He lost track of the conversation, although it’s debatable whether a conversation with oneself can really be considered a conversation at all.
He was content simply to sit and look at the artwork of her face as the soothing tones of her voice washed over him. He continued like this for what could have been years or minutes, his coworkers too absorbed in their own drunken interactions to take much notice of his absence. Finally he pulled himself out of his enamored trance and made an effort to focus back on her words.
“ - life in the city is so different but it has its own brilliance too. I think I’ve been pulling more than my weight in this conversation, so tell me, who are you Henry?”
“Well I work at a printer company over by- “
“No, I didn’t ask how you pay the bills, I asked who you are. What makes you? How do you define yourself?”
“Who am I?” he repeated to himself. He didn’t know how to answer that. So he started at the beginning. He told her everything. He gave her Henry’s Life Story, the abbreviated version. Every funny memory that came to mind. Every interesting person he’d crossed paths with or who had touched his life. Every emotion. Every hope. Every fear. Every aspiration. Past and present.
He didn’t know why or from where it all came. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was her allure, or her disarming nature. It was probably all three, and when last call came they were still engrossed in conversation. Together they walked through the doors of the bar and out into the night, her hand finding his in the darkness. Bound together by their interlocked fingers, they crossed the street to the park from which the street drew its name and settled in comfortable silence on a bench beneath a copse of trees, overlooking a small pond. The face of the man in moon smiled up at them from the mirrored surface of the pond. Her head rested on his shoulder, and the scent of sunflowers wafted up from her ebony tresses, tickling his nose.
I don’t even know your name.
This was his last thought as he drifted off to sleep, although even there this mysterious woman was inescapable, and she danced through his thoughts until morning.
He awoke shivering to the aroma of morning dew filling his nostrils. The sun had not yet rose, although its pale light was already emanating from beneath the horizon. No head rested upon his shoulder. He had no idea how to process the events of the last 24 hours.
He made the cab ride home in silence. As he was exiting the taxi the mailman was just reaching his house.

“Hello. How are you today?”

“Good! How are you?”

“I’m good,” he replied, just as the mailman passed, “If you’re ever not good, or need someone to talk to, let me know.” He called to the mailman’s back.

The man turned and faced Henry with a bewildered expression, and replied

“Okay, can do.” In a tone akin to how one might speak to a senile senior or a mental patient.

Henry took little notice and dug in his pocket for his keys. Looking down to sort out the key to the deadbolt, his eyes fell upon something on the inside of his right forearm.

410-***-6100
-Dawn (but you can call me Sunny ? )
He smiled to himself.
Warmth bathed his face. The sun kissed the horizon. A yellow car drove by.
Everything was the same. Everything had changed.