In the moonlight, one’s love holds one close, one’s face is pressed into one’s love’s chest. One can feel a burning behind one’s eyes, one’s love’s long, strong fingers gently combing one’s hair, brushing across one’s scalp—one can feel the beating beneath one’s love’s warm skin.

One goes out for a meal with one’s parent at a chintzy greek restaurant in one’s gleaming, glorious city. One’s parent speaks of a recent trip to a foreign coast, shares photos of famous volcanoes, shattered ruins, buried cities where are hidden—or so one has been old—reams of ancient lyrics, ancient poetry, ancient songs. None of it has been found … one makes the obvious connection—much history has been lost between one and one’s parent, much remains buried. One wonders, hearing of the beatific coastlines, not listening, of singing the buried song of something, of passage, of a once-possible life, its lament, its curse … but this is impossible. To actually sing, now, would be impossible. One’s wailing echoing tinnily off clinking glassware and cutlery; the hoarse, itchy rattle in one’s throat and lungs; one’s heart thrusting outward; one’s composure cracking along the broken melody—one cannot imagine what this, all this feeling, reflecting back at one in the mirror of one’s parent’s face, would bring … the horror … to sing would be to distress that which above all despises distress—one’s parent, old and soul-weary, beginning to relinquish claims to one life or another.

And yet—is this not the most compelling case for singing?

As one’s parent prattles about ruins and language and unsurpassed beauty, one recognizes one’s parent has decided, after many years, to cache a portion of their sadness, their worry, in the foreign land, sealing it—the worries, themselves—in its memory, like volcanic ash has sealed—what?—the lyrics, the poetry, the songs. The life.

This keeps one up through the dead of night, until the dreams come: a Work that will excavate an entombed city, sing the single-voiced chorus of natural calamity. That will find redemption in … what?

 One sits for the meeting with one’s sub-director. The office is large, its windows small and streaked with the guts of wind-swept insects. A burnished mahogany desk predominates, gives off a dim brown glow—stacks of paper cover its top. One sits in a low chair, black-cushioned, plastic.

This is a performance review, one’s sub-director says, an appraisal.

But this hardly matters to one, the sub-director hardly matters, whether this apathy is conveyed to the sub-director couldn’t be less meaningful—or so one projects, sliding into the chair back. For one must quit this job. One must.

The sub-director re-orders the papers on the desk, orders them into two neat stacks.

Things are going … well, one’s sub-director says.

The sub-director coughs.

There must be more attention paid to detail. Detail-orientation, I think.

The sub-director picks up a paper, peers in as if reading.

I think I’m like you, the sub-director says.

The sub-director leans back like one leans back, then leans forward, dropping the paper on top of the others.

I’m an … ideas person. Like you. I think. But—

In a blink, something hinges, catches, the words speed up.

I think, this job, what it is, is, it’s about detail-orientation—the sub-director says this last word with conviction, enunciating each syllable, cherishing each like a mantra.

It matters, to be detail-oriented. Because you start off there. The job, when it starts, that’s what you do. You go to work, and you work, and you get it right. This is what it’s about.

The sub-director’s cheeks redden, hands clench into a fist.

When you’re your age, it’s about demonstrating detail-orientation. It’s about … beating the other person next to you. You put your head down, you work hard at work, you get it right, you show others how hard you’re working, you’re the last one standing.

The sub-director says, pounding the table with every syllable: that’s-what-it’s-about.             

One, bemused—or so one projects; inside, one quakes—asks whether it is the case the sub-director has not received a promotion after ten years at the Company.

The sub-director coughs. The sub-director leans back, leans forward.

I’ve got … a few things … to show. For my work. This isn’t a place where one gets. Where one gets. Recognition, it’s. It passes by. It’s. But.

Something hinges, something catches; the words speed up.

But it’s about the work. Working hard. When you’re me, you get to make choices. I decide. I decide. And it’s about detail-or … vision, I have … some work. To show. I’ve worked.

The sub-director’s eyes harden and flicker, begin to strain—the room sucks towards them.

I’m going to be the last person standing. At some point, that’s been decided. I have work to show. But. It’s about the work, working hard, being detail-or… vision, I’m … I’m like you. I want to win. Family, mortgage. I.

The sub-director begins to cry, the sub-director pounds the desk and wails:

It’s. About. The work. The last person. Standing hard. Work. It’s-about-that. I think I’m like you. But. The work. Ideas, but. Do you? Ideas, but. I’m like you. I want to win.

The sub-director weeps, the sub-director’s hands are palm-up, asking one, completely prostrate.

That’s what needs to be worked on, I think … Do you understand? I want to win.

It had come to an impasse, one’s love said …