Anion II

Anion had been wrong. Not that he cared. His creation the other day had been well received, by those had received it well. The rest (though very few) had tittered and tried their best to wiggle their heads discreetly. But when the ugly red haired goddess had said "niiice", Anion had switched off his ears. They did not need to hear anything else.

Today, though, the liquid hardly looked inspiring even to him. It didn’t matter, he had other things to worry about. He was, in fact, a little disturbed. There had been this moment in the meeting this morning when he had sat, palms together, chin on hands, eyes glazing over at the glow of a presentation on the wall. When would they understand that creative souls like his could, did not, would not care for the graphs? But at the time he was not thinking of it. In fact, he was trying to appreciate what was being displayed. Only after a few minutes did he realize that that something was tickling the back of his hand. But his gaze remained unaverted, till he felt a small plop by his elbow.

He had dribbled, in a slow undisgusting trickle down his chin and onto his palm, plopping onto the wood by his elbow. Surely he needed to focus on this. Life- no, a dribble was more crucial than mere presentations, and certainly an undetected dribble was worth pondering over.

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