The Air Traffik Controller

Beezle watched the monitor, watched the dancing blips. He studied them, thought about what they represented. This was his job after all. He sipped his coffee and allowed himself to feel euphoric. This involved not feeling realistic. Fuck realism he had decided earlier that morning. You got these wee pockets of euphoria wherein realism seemed inane or moot.
Habit was comfortable. This was surely a verifiable fact. The air traffic controller drank his coffee and contemplated those planes howling through the air, guided by his arbitration. His colleague Fiona appeared at his shoulder. She was smiling nervously. Her manner was one of hesitancy.
You see, she had recently learned that Beezle was in love with her. She smiled amicably and he did the same. He finished his coffee.
"I'm going to get more coffee. Would you like some coffee?"
"Okay," she said in a manner that thrilled him for no explicable reason.
"Could you keep an eye on the monitors 'til I get back?" he requested.
"Yeah."
Beezle ambled off to procure the coffees. He felt disproportionately euphoric and purposeful. He actually shimmied a wee bit, I mean he did a wee dance en route to the coffee stand. He must've looked ridiculous. The young janitor sneered at him.

Fiona gazed fervently at the monitor, her finger tracing the flashing light in the manner of a mesmerized retard. She had no idea what the onscreen data represented, her role at the airport was in admin. She sat in Beezle's seat and appreciated the lingering warmth from his recently vacated ass.

The coffee stand was manned by an amicable sort of retard manboy named Peter.
"Two coffees, please," chirped Beezle, frivolously jingling the change in his pocket.
"Two coffee?"
"Aye Peter, two coffees please, fuckin' hurry it up, eh?" Beezle retorted in the parlance of an uncouth Scottish thug. He rabbit-punched Peter in the side of the head.
"Ow!" moaned Peter.
Beezle looked around him to make sure no-one had observed this act of spontaneous cruelty. Spontaneous cruelty was his favourite kind of cruelty. You surprised yourself with it sometimes so you did! But the elation was short-lived. As Beezle watched Peter prepare the coffees, he didnae feel very good about himself.

Beezle set a coffee before Fiona and sat beside her.
"Thank you," she said in a wee voice and smiled to herself. Beezle smiled and murmured "No problem." There was a whole lot of fucking smiling going on. It was pathetic. It was also kind of beautiful.

A bird appeared at the window. It sat on the ledge and peered in, looking around in jerky rapid movements of its wee head.
Horses galloped through distant misty fields.
Look at the dog swishing its tail!
Look at the squirrel swishing its tail!
The camera swirls around global wildlife. The squirrel ascends the bird-feeder.

Airplanes soared overhead. The sky was yellow-grey as the sun dipped. A faint breeze stirred discarded paper cups.
Fiona tossed her empty cup onto the ground. Beezle turned and slapped her.
"Don't do that!" he commanded. He laughed. Fiona laughed as well. A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek, perched on her chin, then plummeted to the pavement.
Beezle felt bemused. Beezle felt horny. The wind began to pick up. The sun had dipped down quite far past the horizon but a fair amount of light remained. It was airy and fresh. Pockets of euphoria. All at once the wind ceased and the sky darkened. It became night. By the time this happened Beezle and Fiona were in their respective homes, in their respective beds. Both were locked into surrealistic, ineffable dreams.

Animals frolic in Germany. Distant eyes blink, beam indifference.