Sitting next to the open window on the third floor, he felt enough like part of the neighborhood to smile to himself. Every night was an accomplishment and required reflection on the lack of accomplishment of the day. The ceiling fan, humiliated and somehow not exhausted, pitifully continued to stir the night air.
All feelings of fulfillment are temporal, obviously; but there is also a distinct human appetite for conclusion - and that desire for closure often quenches gratification before its inevitable end. This is why I quit that job when I was doing surprisingly well (and what about the younger girl with the nose ring who always rode her bike!), he thought, and why things became sensitively uncomfortable with her (not the girl with the nose ring) without logical explanation after what was supposed to be the hardest part was over. Every other explanation that he'd justified or that had been told to him must be associated with the apathy (ignorance?) towards the Rwandan genocide, and the quick denial that rushes forth when one is confronted with the fact that he or she could have been an accomplice in such a horrid business (or indirectly was).
Below, down on the street, a man carried an air conditioner on his shoulder. He passed a young woman.
Air conditioner, twenty dollars, he enthusiastically offered.
No, she abruptly answered, walking a skillful arc around him.
OK, good luck with that oscillating fan! he said, and strode on, unphased.
From the window, he grinned, and longed to be on the street with this man. But he never really considered going downstairs, because he didn't need an air conditioner.