The Night’s Eye

He’s walking down to the street line of neighborhood. Went back home after the late workload at the office, he’s fatigue enough to get blurred even if the cylinder lens of his glasses already been polished for more than thousand times.

It’s been so many times the electricity company played such a dull scheme towards the law abiding citizen. They cut the lights off from the residents’ houses, just to feed this one wheel-amusement-vehicle called “The Night’s Eye” up.

This wheel of unfortunate events, lead him to the dark side of the clustered blocks on his way while going back to the sweetest cassava of properties; home. Since the amusement park built in the residential’s enviro at the new developer projects’ next-door, the electricity kept shutting down at least for once or twice in a week, which would made it calculated into four to eight times a month, forty-eight until ninety-six per year.

Get much more comfort spending time at office rather than at his bed by the blackout condition, made him a very addicted workaholic. All inside his head, mind, and soul isĀ  dedicated specially for the whole sake of those spreadsheets and documents.

Few decades ahead, he’s moving to the different side of suburb purgatory. Having no more lens left to be contacted with his eyes, and the lights always stayed on anytime he wanted, thankfully for his very own unlimited electricity source run by renewable energy, he’s transforming from one kind of workaholic into another type of the similar form of function and purpose, as the new capital.

Having a family, with two twin kids, a girl and a boy, seems still not perfect enough to stop the clock ticking. The Night’s Eye is still there, haunting his deepest emptiness inside, no matter how hard he try, the same amusement vehicle kind of wheel still giving this particular trigger towards a sort of trauma experience. No matter how many stockholders he has of the developers in his hands, he still could not burry the blackout dream he has every night.

Until there’s a ring from the phone, waiting to be picked up, talking to the cross of the line that said,

“I’d like to buy your shares.”

Then, he hang up the call, abruptly. Made him starting to think about who was that, and where the person got his number, the private one. The number who could only reached by the inner circle, either for family or business, the emergency urgencies button.

Miraculously, he got this insight, wondering what would he might have done if there’s no more power, authoritative financial in his hands, no more control thorough all the major and minor details of his business empire.

The second call, he made after found out the number from cross lie, and said,

“Terms and conditions apply.”

The paperworks run as fast as the lightning stroke the sky in the middle of heavy rain, then he got no share left in his stock-exchange portfolios. His kids, already emancipated by relatives-related some kind of guardians, well prepared by trust fund, at least a wealth guarantee enough for the 1st next generation, unless the force major might say different in the future.

He walking down the line to the playground park, greeting to the security and the late night shift workers inside, as the way he used to own it for a time of influence, when he have all of the shares of the recreation spot. Everyone thought well known of him, even the last shift vehicle attendance permitted him walked through to the amusement wheel, The Night’s Eye.

The Morning Paper published as usual at the next day, with common headlines fulfilled by the greatest advertisers could paid for the most expensive account. In the turnover pages, where the columns meet the row in the middle of advertorial sections, right after the editorial ones. It’s an underlined italic bold gothic fonts written,

Rest In Peace

What kind of news, is more actual, factual, and urgent, than an obituary of suicidal capital, depressed by traumatic events?


The Sentimental Business

She’s wearing this fancy gothic-chic apparel. All in black, and its shades, from head to toe. It was a decade ago, when she was still a freshman on her collegiate community of academic. Now, she already become this typical cosmopolite dresser, designing clothing for stars. She never wanted to be any kind of model, even though almost every people she met told her to be.

There’s a phase between the gothic-chic and the clothing-liner. She was working as pharmacy’s factory currier, from such herbal factory of non conventional medication corporate fabrication industry. Wearing casual-pastel androgyny uniform, biking her ride of european automotive vehicle, she used to meet her prospectus clients anywhere as long as it’s still on her circle of messenger-range.

Until she bounced to the significant-other, from these to those ones, again and again like a cycle of romance turning against the alternate universe of karma. It stopped when the one, who already have a crush on her since highschool, divorced from his former spouse, and decided to be an investor for her hidden-passion, to be come someone she never thought before.

He’s suiting a tailored cottons and wools, wrapped his manly-body perfectly in such smooth silhouette of thin shadows. As a former class-clown school-nerd with thick glasses who got his eyes such laser surgery, he’s quite metropolis. There’s a time when he used to wear bracelet on his teeth, with a huge baggy backpack of tons big book, walking slowly along the hallway, identifying himself as a wallflower.

Nowadays, after graduating as a master of business on such doctoral program from international ivy-league school, and possessing this research-publication of global marketing strategy journal, he’s owning the family dynasty company which were given by a-very-far-away-distance-related-by-blood-uncle who credited his name by the will of the passed away old-man.

He met her on this school reunion, bounced by the possibility of random sitting system of the party-table, set by the appearance-numbered of attendance, and reciprocally said to each other at the same moment of time,

“Long time no see.”

The refrain of unsettled serendipity continued to be such typical professional relationship in the name of commerce. They brainstorming the ideas of business proposals, until each other set the roles of partnership. She turned to be the designer, and he as the investor of her couture.

Besides the business about business itself, they don’t have any interpersonal level of significance. No feelings intended between the two of soul, regardless the past condition of the business partner towards her. He’s just not that into her anymore. As he said to her on one of their meetings,

“Wish you were still him, maybe we would already have this kind of our own equal-civilian marriage of the century.”

Could any sentimental business like this be more colorful than unreciprocated hearts?