Sun had written and rewritten this mail umpteen times.
Dragged and dropped certain words. Hovered over the red and blue squiggly lines. All the errors in colour codes.
Sun had used the online thesaurus in efforts to punch this missive up.
Sun wanted the words to land. Sun needed them to.
But, having finished this letter for the squillionth time, Sun had doubts.
Sun wanted to leave. Get the heck out of Dodge.
Sun was tired. Too tired. Sun needed a break.
The greyed faces. The tedious discussions and the constant going nowhere fast was beginning to drag.
Sun had done their level best to shine as bright as possible. Sun had burnt so many candles.
So many ends.
None of which any longer met.
Sun had hot-desked. Sun had remote log-ons. More USBs and dongles than you could shake and excel spreadsheet at. Sun had working holidays.
Bus man’s holidays.
All-nighters.
Sun had bitten their lip so often, the lip had permanent scars.
Sun had to do something. Anything before Sun no longer could.
Sun would hand over the keys. Sun would relinquish a modicum of the control Sun thought they still had.
Though that was merely a cruel trick of the light.
Sun’s finger twitched again. Not quite high noon, but it felt like a trigger.
This was a bullet, alright.
One which when fired would signal the end of one time and the beginning of another.
Then.
And now.
Sun dragged the cursor up to the address box. Clicked cc:
Added “Rain”.
Added “Cloud”.
bcc: “Storm”.
“Wind”.
“Fog”, “Hail”, “Gails”.
He changed the title, removing ‘Future Plans’, replaced it with ‘All Yours!’.
Sun dragged the mouse back to ‘send’.
Paused.
Heartbeat.
Breathe.
‘Click’!
