And on the last day...

One the last day of the work week Allen thumbed through the progress reports that littered his desk, took a long pull on the silver coffee thermos that always left a few drops on his upper lip, picked up the phone, beveled illuminated button indicating message.

Punching in the numbers without thinking about it, looking at his library on his shelf, the self-help books, 'finding your hidden voice', 'knowing the real you' and realized that he never really knew who he was, his reverie was broken by the tone of voice on the person who left the message, a desperate, frantic voice. Not a student, too mature for that, not a parent, the tone of voice was wrong. Sounded like an old lover. He took another look at his bookshelf.

Channeling the feelings of the last school year, being stripped from power, embarrassed by his own ideas, the position of department head eliminated this year, at the end of this school week, must have fought to hard. He remembered the advert of his youth, 'never let them see you sweat'

But this voice, startling in its tone, its nakedness, talking about moments five years prior, apologies about missing the date, and the reasons why, and he hung up mid-message, and pulled out a dog-eared journal from his bookshelf.

He looked through the entries, from student teaching, and he saw himself built up gradually, as the pages turned, and making a slow about-face towards the end of the same volume.

He shut this book, slammed the doors that hung from above down, making a huge crashing sound, interrupting the silent lunches of co-workers, spectacles dangling on the end of noses, looking up for a moment before he walked out of the planning room.