floating in a tin can

jewsinspace
spaceodyssey

It’s late. Michael’s not sure how late, but it’s dark out and it’s been that way for a while. He keeps forgetting to look at clocks, can’t remember what time it was when he left the office (or when he last ate, or when he last sat down). His singlemindedness continues to override any protest his body tries to stage—though by the time he makes his way back to the Village, he’s stumbling and blurry-eyed and sweaty, hair and clothes mussed beyond his usual level of disorder.

He climbs the stairs to the apartment with surprising speed and a complete lack of grace, sacrificing the rest of his energy for the home stretch. Michael uses the door to stop his momentum, catching himself on it with a thud and then scrambling for his key. He tries to get it in the lock but his hand is shaking too badly. He can’t concentrate. There are at least forty bees swarming in his skull. His skin is crawling, he could scream with how frustrated he is. It’s imperative that he get inside right away. Now. Five minutes ago. This is important. It’s the most important thing he might ever do.

“Lee?” he calls from the hallway, panicked. What if she’s asleep? He’ll have to break the door down, and doors cost a lot. “Lee!”