In the office where the window is an afterthought, clothed in black shutting out the eve, hangs my painting of Oliver Dorman, eccentric. The office is stark, equipped only with a maple desk and chair. A bookshelf stands in the corner where a sliver of light from the open door leaks in. Upon this desk is a blank sheet of paper, and a pen that is all but empty of ink. It matters not. Oliver Dorman winces in his portrait, not fond of sitting the prerequisite length of time. He scrunches up his nose and pouts, but the artist paints over this grim affair with brush, gives his model an air of contempt and a glass for contemplation. If ever the door slams, the front door to this abode, the pen moves about; it is inching closer to the edge, off the page, nearer to the brink, ready to take the plunge. The worn wooden planks, scuffed below the four legged butt holder, lie cold over stretched beams and hard packed clay. Quiet they have lain for hours, even days, frigid and replete with tedium, anxious to receive any clue, a sign from above. Just a draft gives rise to a thought, places its icy finger on the page and lifts a corner, forging an intimate turn of phrase, and forgetting like a candle does, its flame dancing on a breeze that snuffs it and travels on. What little light remains evaporates, taking Oliver Dorman with it into the night, and blackness creeps in, filling at last the creaky floorboards, stopping them like glue and only the rafters speak now, in low tones bidding another day farewell; goodnight.
