chrispypin

David keeps track of time by the chiming of the church bell. Half past. The bell toll buffets the nets hanging over the small bright windows overlooking the crowded streets. Margo, the team leader, pushes up her gold-rimmed spectacles and clutches her flip-chart pen between bright pink fingernails. She says something about targets. All he hears is blah blah blah as droplets of sweat force their way down his back between his creased white shirt and itching skin.