Winter Nights: An Attempt at a Creative Narrative

It was another cold, quiet night but his hands and feet were surprisingly warm, a welcome change from the past couple of days when just keeping his fingers nimble enough to write had been a struggle. Yesterday, nothing had seemed to bring his frozen fingers back from numbed uselessness. Thinking of the cold, Richard tagged gloves as a “to buy” item but they really fell into the category of things not really worth getting or would never remembered to buy anyway. Richard leaned back in the old wooden chair he had commandeered from the school. It had once been a desk chair, the desk part long gone leaving only the wooden support piece to make sitting awkward when approaching from the right. It was a fitting chair to have in rural Paraguay, a good representation of the disrepair and acceptance of it that defined so much of Paraguay.
Peering from the computer screen back at his desk, the instant coffee he had just brewed was already cold, ceasing to function as the warming elixir of energy it was intended for and transmogrifying into yet another bitter reminder of the futility, barrenness, isolation and disappointment of his current work. In front of him sat an abundance of further proof, an electric hot water boiler, contents cold, a new spy novel, recently worn from use, featuring an Asian American protagonist, John, lost in his own frigid and solitary life. There was the flimsy modem stick jutting out awkwardly from the computer, its fickle blue light reminding him that, just for the fleeting moment, he had the privilege of being connected to the the world he knew. To his left sat the the cheap, rectangular, cell phone making up for its simplicity with a cool color scheme and the words FM RADIO which was advertized as if it were something exceptional or noteworthy. It was a basic phone to keep in contact with the other 200 volunteers he never bothered to call anyway and whose only real merit was its function as a morning alarm clock he never woke up to. Still, it was always close. Just for the remote possibility that it would break the mundane silence with ringing promise of a text or incoming call.
        There was the big shining white GRE book that screamed first world and tied him to his real future back in the first world along with the dull pencil, dirty, used eraser and tiny manual pencil sharpener that embodied his current third world setting. Lying adjacent and half under the laptop was a scrap of notebook paper with scribblings on the costs of a chicken project, its surface stained with oil from some hastily cooked, half satisfactory meal. The project had been moderately successful and he was trying to improve on it. On top of that, a folded cheat sheet pointing out the requirements for various Peace Corps grants that he had hoped to explore but would probably never make any real progress on. Underlined portions signals of the enthusiasm he once had.
He downed the rest of the coffee chilling his throat but bringing him some sort of resemblance of the clarity he sought an hour ago. He thought about John Rain, expert spy. At least John lived in Tokyo and had the advantage of being a real spy. It was distinctly superior than living in the farmland of Paraguay and having locals think you are a spy. Finally lying in front of him,between his body and the laptop were two over used tissues that had probably been first used to blow his nose in the morning then used again for the same purpose for the following 3 days while periodically functioning to clean  small liquid spills. It was unhygienic but utilitarian and there was no justifiable reason to change what worked.
He was at his kitchen table which would more accurately be described as his everything table, work desk, dining table, and kitchen table. It was where he was most of his days during this cold winter, hunched uncomfortably on the low table cutting vegetables, sitting awkwardly, straining his back to accommodate any position where he could scrounge up internet signal and loudly castigating himself when he made careless mistakes on GRE practice questions.

Tonight was just like any other night. He rubbed his face in his hands happily reminding himself that both his face and hands were warm. It wasn't so bad. There was electricity, running water, hot water if he waited a couple minutes, internet and good books. Considering where he was, the house was pretty nice. 4 large rooms with concrete floors, in house bathroom, hot shower, flushing toilet and mirror,  windows in every room and practically no leaks in the roofing. His amenities were better than many volunteers. The green walls he had recently painted, also gave the rooms a warmer, alive feeling, though the job was incomplete close to the ceilings where he had gotten lazy and put it off for a day that may never come.  Richard rubbed his hands together, feeling the cold creeping in. With a deep breath he sat up and reopened his GRE book to the vocab section. The coffee may have not had the desired invigorating effect but good enough to get something done. Maybe tomorrow would be warmer he thought and he could try to shake off the futile feeling that so often came with the cold.