12 baktun, 19 katun, 19 tun, 17 vinal, 19 kin, 0 iztun *

Mr N. woke up at 7 am as usual. He pondered for a short moment with his eyes closed, then opened his eyes and sighed. How much time? He haven't counted the days long times ago.
He got up, hiding her legs in her slippers, waiting for her next to the bed. He didn't have to look, he did the long habit of doing it. He shrugged into the bathroom, washed and shaved thoroughly, comfortably.
As he wiped his face, he looked in the mirror for a few seconds. Another Mr N. looked back at him, an aging sagging face, wrinkled forehead, watery eyes. Nothing has changed since last morning. That's something, he thought, a reassuring constant.
He dressed up, pulled her shirt, tied her tie and picked up her jacket. He carefully directed the shawl out of his breast pocket. Old, outdated habit, but not bothered. Elegant, did he know, how many people could tell about it in their age?
He picked up his long black coat, gripping his hat and briefcase and stepped out into the hallway. He ringed with his keys a bit, closing the door, the noise quietly echoing on the gang. Bare, ceramic-covered courtyard. The winter is approaching, the house master has already carried down the plants into the cellar. Mr N., looking straight ahead, walked firmly on the stairs, out of the gate and hastily started.
 A couple of corners went into his usual caféhouse. Breakfast, first coffee and some pastry, as he ran his favorite morning news. Nothing interesting ... a few accidents, a well-known diva renounced her performance for a kind of personal reasons (Mr. N. shook his head disapprovingly), a tram derailed in another city, few sects predicted again the end of the world, in addition at that day!. Ridiculous! Mr N. didn't like being upset. He tok the sheet down with his mouth down, put the money on the table and briefly nodded to the waiter when he left.
 The usual bustle was in his office. He hung up his coat, guided the hat over that, pushed the bag to the right side of his desk, and sat down with satisfaction in his papers, pens, stemples and other office items. Nothing changed, only the duplicates of unattached documents grew slightly, reaching the level of yesterday morning. Mr N. was at work.
Just at noon - he didn't have to look up at the wall clock - put the stamp down and stretched his shoulders slightly. Lunch break. As he took his coat, he heard that many of his colleagues were talking about the end of the world, which, in their view, was expected to be around half past two in afternoon. A loud colleague sounded the event loudly, gesturing and showed with suggestive pictures of what was expected. Just as Mr N. came next to them, the laughter broke out. Mr. N. looked away and leaned out of the office beside them.
In his café, sitting down to his favorite table, he didn't even have to call the waiter, and it had already appeared with that day's menu. Broth and then beef stew with dumpling. Mr. N. ate slowly, chewed every bite, and did not think of anything. Rinse the taste of coffee after lunch with soda water. As long ago, day after day.
 While he walked home from his workplace, he didn't even look up, so he couldn't see the gray, cloudy clouds that completely covered the sky. The snow started to fall, Mr N. shrugged his coat over his neck. He had dinner at home: bread, little cold meat, cheese, tea and then went to sleep. He almost never dreamed.
 The creature, perhaps an angel sometime, looked into the glass ball that was just shaking. White flakes swirled in it, buried the tiny houses, the tiny, hurrying shapes.
There was a bit of sadness in her smile. How long has it been, he thought, and put the now white-blowing sphere into the rest of the long rows, then picked up the next one. And they don't even think the same thing happens every day. Every single cursed day since the Judgment Day.

* 12.21.2012 - Last day of the Mayan calendar. This post written for that day and then

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