As foretold, the waters rose a third time. Men in masks descended on Matthew's office and tore the walls asunder. Knocked over cabinets, disassembled desks, and ran great polyurethane tubes through the rubble. Industrial fans rip the humid air and disperse the spores the sprouted in the moist carpet.
Matthew sits in his swivel chair at the pile of bent metal and drywall shards that occupy the same space his desk once did. He takes a deep breath of stale air, and pokes at his phone. Eventually, someone from upstairs comes to retrieve him.
His temporary desk is nearly identcal to his old one, except it is above sea level and deep - deep - in a cube farm. One neighbor streams Vivaldi, and the others chatter about unfamiliar children. The walls of his cube are ragged, slashed by a quasi-human hand. The corners of the desk appear to have been chewed on, impressions of molars in the simulated wood. Matthew considers the desk's previous occupant as Vivaldi storms.
My mother has a lot of questions. No, I'm not gay. No, I don't want to be a woman. No, I am not interested in transitioning. Yes, my wife knows.…
Wow, is my first thought, it's so light. The next is, there's no way this is going to fit. The weirdest thing about what's happening is that…
T emping feels right. Not good right, but appropriate. Like: it is right for a leaf to be attached to the branch of a tree, fluttering in the…