Fiction: Procrastination

Do something.

I place the gumball in my mouth. If it were a jawbreaker this would hurt, but the candy coating dissolves quickly and collapses in on the hollow centre. It is an obnoxious shade of blue.

Experimentally I stick my tongue out at the mirror. Obnoxious shade of blue. I wonder if the previous gumballs were the same, and I simply did not notice.

You’re not doing anything.

I think about the pickles in the fridge. Pickles and salami. Salami slices fried to a crisp are like potato chips, only better.

Please. Time is wasting.

I ignore the voice and chew. Deliberately. I was thinking of something but it escapes my mind.

Pickles…

No, not pickles. Something. I shape the gum with my teeth and blow. The material snaps before it can form a bubble. So much for gum. I move to fold it away, into the tissue in my pocket. To my dismay, it is blue.

I examine my tongue in the mirror again. No blue.

“Ah,” I say. I pop in a yellow gumball and examine the result. Yellow.

Less dismay, then.

Alarm clock.

I glance at it. It stands in the corner of the table, nameless, trustworthy. “No.”

Then do something.

“No,” I say, without thinking.

It’s afternoon.

So it is.

A stirring which is quickly quelled. Do something. Do something NOW!

“I can’t.”

Why?

“Don’t feel like it.”

You will regret this later.

“Maybe.” The gum is losing its sweetness rapidly. I hate gum. It never goes away once it’s done.

Green.

“Green?”

Music.

Obligingly I put on the headphones and glance down the playlist. Piano, I think. The punctuated sounds follow in sharp staccato.

I still find it hard to believe that the piano is a string instrument.

The voice settles to a corner of my mind. I listen briefly to the notes. Already the gum tastes like tepid tea. While kneading out the last of the sugar with my teeth I consider which gumball to take next.

Green.

I shrug. Alright.

The music moves fast, notes following each other as fast as they can without stumbling.

Arpeggio.

“What?”

It’s called “arpeggio”.

“How do you know what I don’t?” The question seizes me, and I wonder if it is possible for me to know more than I do.

There is no reply. I do not have one.

Yellow.

There is no more yellow.

Purple.

I stare at it suspiciously. What flavour-

DosomethingdosomethingdosomethingDOSOMETHINGNOW!

Nerves taken by surprise and twitching in obedience, my hand moves and brings up a document. Something inside gives way, and I begin work.

“I hate you,” I say amicably. There is no response.