His discontent was a river, wide and deep.
His life flowed like driftwood on the current; on the surface, gone in turbid whitewater. Habitually stuck in the reeds waiting for the next nudge of current to get him back into slipstream.
Mostly, mostly, his days meandered in the placid flow. He woke before his alarm, brushed, flossed, ate sensibly, commuted. On his return, he ate sensibly, read books, dusted. A decent bedtime.
There, in the darkness, he’d hit the rapids. Heart-pounding angst. Tears, snot-filled gasps. His wish from the swirl of his life?
The chance encounter, a touch, intimate.