Fighting Machine

I glare at the wall and wait for my machine to respond.

It whirs. Clicks. Thumps a few times. It should’ve done something by now.

I wait. Flick a switch. Tap the keys. Once more.

The seconds crawl into minutes on the wall. I breathe. The machine whirs and thumps and whirs and clicks. On the outside, I am pure patience.

On the inside, I’m in a fighting rage. I’ve already smashed the machine against the wall a thousand times.

On the outside, I wait.

They assured me the machine would free up my time. Instead, I’ve become its slave.