A Short Story About Perfectionism
I sewed the last edge of the rectangular patch he’d ordered me to put on the front. It was covering nothing; it had no use. But it kind of added to its beauty. I looked up at him. “Sir, I’ve finished.”
I hope he’ll like it.
Turning his face toward the small window on the right, he puffed smoke and dropped the cigarette. A pool of water on the floor doused the glow at its tail. Then he squashed it under his boot and took few steps closer to me. I looked down at the machine, my eyes fixed on my creation until he grabbed it up with his thick hand.
He cleared his throat. “Cut out the embellishments on the front; they make it look ugly.”
“But you—”
“Do it now!” He cut me off and tossed it at me.
I’d spent the best part of the morning embroidering them, but I’d no choice: he was the boss, and he also had a shotgun hanging down his side.
The roof cried louder as the rain got heavier. More parts of the ceiling had started to leak. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled through the room; the bulb flickered.
“It has to be flawless,” he said. “Under my supervision, imperfections must be avoided at all costs.”
I grabbed a backspace and glanced at him as he leaned his back against the wall opposite—beside the door—with a cigarette between his lips and a lighter in his hand. Moments later, hinges squeaked and she entered the room. She walked to her machine and sat behind it.
I'm still battling with the first, but before she took a break at 1:25, she’d completed three. I hate myself! I need ten bars of chocolate and five big bowls of ice cream and five large hamburgers.
“You’ve to make some adjustments to three of them,” he said to her. She ignored him and started operating the machine.
“I’m talking to you, Courage,” he barked.
“Shut up," she said, "you productivity killer."
“I’ll blow your head off.” He flung the cigarette and cocked the gun.
“You’re harmless." She turned to me. “Friend, hope you're making progress?”
He'd pointed the gun at her and placed his finger on the trigger. My eyes traveled between him and her. I tried to speak, but my mouth froze, slightly agape.
“Talk to me.” She stood up and walked over. He followed her with the gun.
“He-he wants me to cut out the embroidery," I stammered, tightening my grip on the backspace.
"Select all and cut; that's what I want!" He glared at me.
She leaned close and said, "Seems you've forgotten that you hired him. Fire. Him. Now. Mr. Perfectionism is harmless. If you allow him to impede on your life, he'll wreak havoc, and eventually, he'll invite his cousin, Mr. Procastination."
For about a minute, she looked at the machine's screen. "This paragraph is okay; drop the backspace."
I dropped it.
Like a defeated soldier, he placed the gun on the floor, opened the door, and took to his heels.
A Fictioneers Writing Contest Entry
(I own the copyright)