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- It is a common enough phenomenon that on the hottest day of summer, time dilates. Expands, stretches. Tightening the physical limits of temporality to becomes a gross, distended monstrosity of a thing. Science scoffs and skeptics wag well meaning fingers, but it is on these occasions that Time reveals herself a sadist. You can see her, if you’re looking closely, if you squint a little. It helps to be very dehydrated.
- It was on one such hot summer day, that Time sat and spread herself across a little college town, passing in that interminably slow way she reserved for the pleasure of torturing those forced to wait. Her present object of scrutiny, one Ben Walder. College-aged corpulent spectacle of a fellow, clad only in shorts and a thin patina of moistness.
- Ben slapped at an itch creeping up the back of his neck. Somehow it was this motion, coupled with slow Internet, and a newfound suspicion of mosquitoes, that set Ben over the edge.
- Fuck this. Fuck Steve and his stupid dates. Steve and his presumptuous “You’re gonna be home anyways, right?”
- And it wasn’t even a definitive thing. There was just a chance. A chance that this might be one of those outdated delivery services that insisted on a signature instead of just leaving it at the door like any sensible apathetic.
- Ben was martyring his evening for a contingency.
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