Semperfrustra
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“If you or I were a woman,” he continues, tilting his head the other way as he adjusts his grip on the pencil, “We’d be married by now.”
The Captain’s body doesn’t react. He remains in his chair, rod-straight back, paperwork set out in neat, soldierly rows, pen in hand, ink dripping leisurely onto the table.
The Captain’s mind splits down the middle with a deafening crack, paints itself red, ignites like a bonfire, throws itself off a cliff, dissolves into ash, jumps in front of a hurtling locomotive, steps off a fighter jet without a parachute and does a million other things besides.