by Dane Bagley
Three more reports lay on the desk. He rubbed his eyes—they burned and were out of focus. “I think I’ll call it a night,” he said to himself. Mayor Tinron got up from his desk and fiddled with his glasses. He pushed his chair back all of the way to the window so that he could maneuver easily around his desk. The sun was just setting; what a magnificent view he had from his office window. He looked out over the street, and watched the people scurrying around. His job wasn’t easy—long hours, tons of paper work, and a never-ending supply of headaches, but he loved it. He loved the citizens, and he especially loved seeing them happy, safe, and secure. Long nights like this were worth it, when he could look out and see the fruits of his labor.
He packed up his bag, and made his way to his coatrack. He carefully put on his large overcoat and flipped on a scarf. He looked around the office, and then turned out the lights as he walked out the door. He shut the door, and then fumbled around in his pocket for his keys. For some reason this task seemed briefly insurmountable. Finally, he had them in his hand, and began to lock the door from the outside.
