Monlogue Series: I

A word about the monologue series: I am unaware if people have carried such exercise, but in short, about 300 word essays, I will try to capture the image of a typical person from a profession or age or similar such strata. I hope readers will enjoy all such blogs. In each series, the last line will highlight the person I am talking about. Or perhaps, in any line, so that no one reads the answer first. Here is the first one:

As I come out of my office building, my spectacles slip from my nose; restlessly, I place them back and then the boy at the door smiles. His smile does not induce enough positive field to convert my frown into a smile. I just ignore him, and start walking down the field, with my eyes glued to the ground. A lady notices me; I walk like a person with eyes staring the ground, as if trying to find the unknown lying there, yet my eyes are not focused on the soil. God only knows, what I am looking at, if I am looking at something. Suddenly, I dip one foot into a mud-pile and notice it after the aftermath. I aghastly wipe my shoe in the grass and walk while the fetching mutt watches me in amazement with his ball jawed in his teeth. I walk little further; disgracefully disgracing the presence of a graceful blonde, making her wonder that how can someone ignore her beauty and presence. I keep walking, with thoughts like if I am elder than Mike, Mike is elder than my wife, my wife is younger to me but elder to Alice, Alice being younger to mike but elder to Jane; what can I say about age relation between Mike and me. I ignore the fresh breeze, the soft winds, the heavy looking gray clouds at the horizon, and orange lining over the clouds due to setting sun, the blooming fragrant flowers amidst these age relations. I strike the lily, which leaned forward to perhaps shake hands with me, with my age-old winter overcoat, even though it is not yet winter. I hardly notice her soft outcry and the nimble attempt to move away from me. I reach the grocery store, and recall my shortest path through the aisles 1, 3, 6, and 7 to the express checkout counter. On return, I suddenly stop at the door, and start counting the discounts till a small boy requests, ``excuse me'' from behind. I reach the home, finally, and hang my overcoat at the door. I pick up a small pastime book, ``how to become a successful mathematician,'' and slumber into my comfortable rocking chair.