It was.... foggy, but not the sort of foggy one would expect when picturing fog, more the light veil of mist that only just obstructs vision for distances of about a hundred yards, and since things over a hundred yards away are rarely worth looking at, nobody really seemed to mind anyways.  Ben certainly didn't mind.  Ben actually didn't even notice.  Leaning back in his quasi-comfortable computer chair, he twirled a pen he'd stolen from the post office between his fingers and sighed, hardly fighting back tears of boredom.

 Sighing again, he looked past his computer at the window just beyond his desk, and stared mindlessly into the light fog, forgetting himself entirely for a moment.  It is quite nearly an art, forgetting oneself.  Most people have difficulty ignoring their own hairstyle, let alone forgetting that they are real.  Ben, on the other hand, was one of about ten people in the state of Rhode Island who was actually capable of true cessation of though- and did so regularly.

Suddenly, a fit of yawns came over Ben like a series of waves.   His eyes began to water heavily, and his attention shifted back to his computer screen.  He'd been writing a two paragraph email to a client for forty-five minutes, and it was nearly lunch time.   Forgetting the reason or content of the correspondence, he quickly typed "and please let me know if you need any help with this" and clicked the 'Send' button at the top of his screen.

  Standing, he grabbed the waist of his pants at opposite sides and adjusted himself.  He leaned forward to shut off his monitor and grab his glasses from the empty inbox at the corner of his desk.  He pulled his green jacket with the small dark stain above the left elbow off of his chair and folded it neatly over his forearm. 

 It wasn't cold outside, yet Ben always felt a bit more comfortable with something in his hands, he felt that somehow, carrying or holding anything made him appear less idle, if not even slightly busy.  People in workplaces often based their range of cognizance on levels of activity.  For example, if one appeared too busy, they would attract the attention of others for resentment and loaded admiration, for surely no one was was deserving of more responsibility than they.  On the other hand, someone who appeared inactive, or less busy than everyone else was immediately deemed guilty of sloth without the slightest shadow of reasonable doubt, and that person was therefore a bastard, and should be treated accordingly.

On his way towards the door, Ben pretended to be Michael Corleone in The Godfather as he left the restaurant after killing McCluskey and Sollozo, looking at people's faces, but not their eyes so as to dishearten any would-be witnesses without locking gazes with anyone. As he reached the door, he turned the knob quickly, and, opening it only just enough so as to allow comfortable egress, he exited, and shut the door as quietly as possible.