Dayve sat at a desk. It was a rectangular beech affair with a three-drawer pedestal on the left side and no other distinguishing features. On the desk rested a notebook, a jar of ink, a pen and a blotter. Oh, and Dayve's elbows. Elbows which, via intervening arms and hands supported his head, chin resting on upturned palms. He gazed down at the notebook's blank pages and let out a sigh. He had work to do, but it wasn't urgent. He found it difficult to get anything done without the pressure of an impending deadline.
He picked up the pen and twiddled it between the thumb, index and middle fingers of his right hand. He tapped the nib on the notebook. He scratched behind his ear with the other end. He dipped the nib into the ink and put pen to paper, resting the nib on the page, barely interested enough to watch as the ink spread out in to become a large black rosette on the page. He released his grip on the pen and let it fall, then returned to once again supporting the weight of his head on his hands.
"Boooooooooring", he moaned to no-one in particular. There were a dozen places he'd rather be, several people he wished he could spend time with and too many things he's rather be doing right now, but he had bills to pay. That's why he'd taken a job as a clerical assistant in the first place - to make ends meet.
He'd never really wanted to be a clerk, but he hadn't always felt as discontent as he was now. When he was offered the position he'd always thought that one day in the not-too-distant future he'd be moving on to something a little more fulfilling. That was how he felt about a good many things in his life, truth be told. He'd change it, he really would! Only, just as soon as he managed to get to a position where he could afford to take a risk and lose. He didn't plan to fail of course, he just wanted to be able to survive if it all went wrong. Just a little longer, just until he was ready...
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