Washington Complex

      Through the clear glass, I see him. He’s staring at me from that deep green field, his eyes never blinking as I work. I glance over occasionally to see if he’s lost interest, or even moved, but no. He’s still there, his eyes following me, his face set in a mask of perpetual boredom. There were numbers floating about him, but they mean little to me. I wish I knew why he was watching me.

I’ve seen him here often enough; his face is burned into my mind. I see him everywhere now, even when my eyes are closed, always on that strange green screen, always with the numbers about him, though those do change almost every time I see him. Him and his tall, aristocratic forehead, his large dignified nose, his centuries outdated coat and ruffled shirt. His ears are always hidden by his outlandish hairdo, hair that would probably gleam white with the natural bleaching of age, were it not for that blasted screen.

This is absurd. Why on Earth would anyone hound me so? Every time I turn around, he’s there. Staring at me. I’ve caught myself reaching out to him on occasion, but every time I do, he just disappears. Is this some crazy game to him? Does he even exist? What am I saying? I’m not crazy. He exists. ...But how else can I explain it?

As time goes on, I’ve begun actively seeking him. The more I see him, the more I need to, but whenever I think I’m close, he disappears. Does he have a problem with commitment? Why can’t he just stay with me? Why won’t he come to me? I’m seeing him now with other people, men, women, even children. Maybe he just doesn’t like me. He’s never here when I need him!

I was working today, and you won’t believe who had the nerve to walk in today… Insufferable bastard, doesn’t he have any shame? He never says a word to me, just fixes me with that vexing, fracking stare before leaving again. I think he was smirking at me. Maybe he’s always been smirking. Smug son of a…

His screen was crushed and wrinkled when I found him today, stuffed into a little jar on the counter. His smirk hasn’t changed an iota in the years that I’ve been seeing him. I just smirk back as I smooth the crinkles in his face and slide him into my wallet.

You’re mine now, Washington. Just try and escape me.

…Well, at least until I buy lunch.