Blinking Cursor

Steady as a metronome. Like the tempo of a turning signal.

Bob is frustrated at his writing desk.

Thinking. Almost counting the blinking.

It's on the tip of his tongue. But cannot put his finger on it. Staring at the blinking cursor. His blank Word Document. What should the title be?

The blinking cursor. The pace of each blink. Steady as a metronome. Like the tempo of a turning signal.

Bob hears one of his kids. Or wife. He thinks. Blink. Blink.

Are they? Calling down to me? Blink. From upstairs? Blink. Blink.

Deep. Deep concentration broken.

Towards upstairs. On top of his lungs. He shouts.

((( What? )))

His music is blaring. He can't think. Are they calling down to me?

Concentration broken. Sits back down. Again at his computer.

Back to his blinking cursor. He suffered. What was I thinking about again?

Again. He hears whoever. Calling. From most likely upstairs. To, me?

He starts blinking. In a rhythm. Almost counting them.

In sync with the blink of his cursor. The blank Microsoft Word Document.

His blinking's been reduced to an almost rhythmic little fit.

Then he starts to curse out loud to himself in a muffled rhythmic loop.

Blinking. Cursing.

Out loud to himself in a muffled rhythmic loop.

Blinking and cursing.

Bob returns his attention to the blinking cursor on his Document.

To how precisely synchronized.

His blinking cursor.

On his blank.

Mic. Ro. Soft.

Word.

Doc. U. Ment.

His blinking cursor.

Perfectly synchronized.

To his song’s blasting beat.