Unfinished Business

Greg’s atelier was a testament to his total non-commitment.

There, in the corner was a collection of bike pieces, the bulk of which were welded together, forming strange, pining sculptures. One wall sported a half-finished mural of a pastoral apocalypse. A disregarded banjo slumped moodily beside a dusty music stand. A pad of paper sat by his wrist, covered in doodles and bad poetry.

Half-done novels (both written and read) mocked him from the bookshelf. Unopened mail lay piled on the table by the door. His answering machine blinked impatiently from across the room, waiting to deluge him with unheard messages.

Greg heaved a heavy sigh and shifted on his stool. He surveyed his domain of dilettance. He decided he liked the term “domain of dilettance”, and scribbled it down on his pad.

He took a sip of coffee, and winced. It had grown cold.

He stood up, stretched, and involuntarily checked his fly. It was, of course, at half-mast.

He sort of tucked in his shirt, and ran a hand through his thick mop of hair.

He needed to shave, but didn’t.

Finally, Greg decided to go for a walk. He shuffled to the door, opened it partly, and looked outside.

It was raining, but only a little bit.

Greg put on his coat, buttoning only the first three buttons.

He was halfway out the door, when suddenly…