THE CONDENSATION ON THE RADAR SCREEN

Dear Delyara, It is 1:25 AM, and a thick, foggy bead of sweat has formed inside the casing of the main radar sweep terminal on the desk. Every time the green sweep line circles the grid, it warps slightly around the water droplet trapped beneath the plastic. I’ve been trying to sketch out the database schema layout for our incoming mobile traffic on the back of an old delivery receipt, but my eyes keep drifting back to that tiny, flawed circle of moisture. Out here, you become hyper-aware of everything that is trapped, everything that is under pressure. The air in this cabin feels heavy, smelling of old wool and damp insulation. I stood up and cracked the window an inch, letting the bitter night air cut through the stagnation before my thoughts could settle into the same dark groove as the room.