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Solemn, Midday Narrator
Sunlight stole over him as he emerged from the broad, angular shadow cast by his employer's squat, redbrick building. He had begun to absentmindedly chew his lower lip as he journeyed to the Sawyer Point building, less than a block up the road. The sky was a clear blue with an occasional thin, white cloud moseying overhead. The air was pleasantly cool and gave quiet hints that spring was on its way, had maybe even arrived; but winter reveled in its long stay and would still beckon to the tri-state with chilling winds or the occasional flurries. Snowstorms weren't out of the question yet, and likely wouldn't be until at least May.
This was par for the course in Cincinnati, Ohio. Or at least, as par for the course as it could be, when dealing with a city famed for its uproarious and ever-changing weather patterns. The previous summer had persisted well into November, only giving way to typical cold spells after Thanksgiving had been and gone. What followed then were temperatures at such bitter lows that most could hardly stand to be outdoors without several layers of clothes on. But the shrill brutality of Mother Nature was no surprise to Cincinnati and it went about its business. When the gray clouds opened up and the snow drifts began to pile, the populace scraped, shoveled and salted as necessary while ignoring the constant streams of melted runoff which quickly iced the roadways.
He lifted his face to meet the bloom of daylight and enjoyed the warmth on his skin. The small of his back ached as he walked. Sitting in his hard-plastic desk chair all day was raining hell on his sciatic nerve, or at least, he assumed that was the problem. He'd overexerted himself while exercising a week and a half prior and, as always, was hesitant to visit the doctor. But judging from what others had told him and what he could find online, his sciatic nerve had been aggravated, and he would be in minor agony for a little while as it recovered on its own. If the pain didn't subside in a few days, he would concede and pay a visit to his family's physician. He'd been telling himself that same thing every three days since the issue arose.
Escaping from the hourly grind into the open air of midday invigorated him, and he felt the stiffness in his lower body loosen its grip with each step taken on the sidewalk. In one hand he had a new book, The Plague by Albert Camus, which he'd just begun yesterday. He could already tell that it would be intelligent, but full of sorrowful lessons that most would never care to learn on their own. He had read essays by Camus as well, but they were much harder to grasp than his fictional narratives. He was proud that he had braved the Myth of Sisyphus, yet still he wanted to feel an even more intimate knowledge of the way that Camus thought; sure as he was that it would aid him in finding joy hidden amongst the toil and monotony of each day. Life had become boring. Stagnated was a better word for it.
Warm winds lapped at him as he went. He could feel his gray dress slacks flutter with each gust. His hair splayed wildly, and locks of it flogged his nose and forehead whenever the bellowing air changed its course. He saw other people creeping along at their own unique and leisurely paces ahead of him on either side of the road.
