Potential

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.

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