Fat pink sausage fingers tap tap atop the touchpad. His chins have chins. Something about a Chinese phonebook. It’s a joke his uncle told him; he doesn’t laugh at it anymore.
He needs a job. Direct deposits into his vacuous no hassle checking account. Benefits to justify rebellious paunch reducing procrastination. A congratulatory doughnut to celebrate his good fortune.
Lukewarm sunlight reflects off the not insubstantial strip of pocked peach skin that marks the rift between his too short russet shirt. He thinks to move but considers the effort; he merely adjusts, lets the salacious sun have its way with him. Something else he can’t control. Another silent prayer for serenity.
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