the clock ticked. it ticked again. the space between ticks was one second, as it always was. sometimes the sound echoed faintly against the wall, which continued being a wall.
the paint on the wall dried. it had been drying since morning. it was now slightly drier. not fully dry, but closer. it would reach full dryness eventually, probably tomorrow.
a man named roger wrote that down in a notebook. “paint still drying,” he wrote. underlined it once. stared at it. thought about underlining it again, but decided once was sufficient.
the kettle boiled. then it stopped boiling. the steam dispersed evenly in the air, not rushing, not lingering.
the cat yawned once. then once more. then stopped.
roger looked at the clock. it was later than before, but not by much. time moved the way syrup falls from a spoon: predictably, without excitement, and in agreement with gravity.
then nothing new happened. the paint dried, the clock ticked, and roger blinked.