Working Aid

Miguel was tired, nearly glaring at his screen. It didn’t respond to his glare.

He had been at it for almost fourteen hours. One break for food around the seventh hour mark, eating quickly, then returning to it, smashing away at the keyboard, stopping to stare and think, trouble-shoot, and then smash some more.

The computer did its part, faithfully taking in what he typed, putting it on the screen. He couldn’t fault it for that.

He could only fault the movement between his words, and the computer’s. They didn’t meet, they didn’t communicate well. Every time he figured out something knew, the computer would reply with its own malicious reply.

Miguel’s eyes hurt. He lifted his glasses and rubbed them. He set them back on his nose, and looked at the screen again.

It was all blurring, none of it making sense any more. He should rest, he knew. But there was no time.

Rising from his chair, Miguel walked to the coffee pot, faithfully keeping his brew warm. He poured another cup, added five spoons of a sugar and a splash of cream, and returned to the desk with a fit of brilliance.

The fit ended a moment later, and Miguel returned to staring. He took a sip, tried a few more keystrokes, and wondered if that would do. Probably not. But there would be time to fix it, he hoped, in a few hours. He took another sip, stood again, and started pacing. He sat, but it wasn’t there. He looked around, grabbed the whiskey, tossed it in to the coffee, and smiled. This should help, he thought.

And it did.

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