It’s the end of May, and May has been a bitter month beginning with a week and a half of unsought solitude and ending with two solid weeks of rain, broken only by the inch and a half of snow that fell just before the Memorial Day Weekend.
He’s done his best to concentrate on his caseload at work but, as the day draws near that his office is scheduled to be relocated across town, his interest wanes, he begins to lose focus, and his clients’ lives feel increasingly remote.
He makes a few perfunctory phone calls in the morning, conducts the requisite home visits as scheduled, and makes himself available in his office early in the afternoons, but almost every day he finds a legitimate excuse to bail out early, often leaving without informing his supervisor or making any particular arrangements to ensure that his absence will not cause any undue burden on his colleagues.
Because he does not significantly interact with them anyway, his officemates do not generally complain about his increasingly erratic schedule, his frequent absences from what they consider to be crucial staff meetings, or his apparent disinterest in the daily social trivia that comprises their own workday experience.
Most of them, caught up and drowning in their own tsunami of paperwork and pointless blather, are far too busy trying to keep their heads above water to even notice that he’s already been swept away by other, stronger currents.
Even this late in May, most of them can’t even imagine what June or July might hold in store, and he—already almost out of sight on some other, far more distant shore—no longer has the heart to try.