They sit, back perfectly straight, calling themselves to attention.
Their arms, from tense shoulders to hovering palms, are locked into position.
The fingers will be pistons.
They can see it; a dream begging to be made tangible.
They sigh and take a long drag on a cigarette for inspiration.
The fingers do not move.
Another whiskey, double measure (always).
I can finish this they think, ignoring the red Biro.
My fingers will be pistons.
They pour another whiskey.
My fingers do not move.