prospector

Triple-A batteries, chip clips, a de-stapler, and some business cards comprised partially the mound on the right side of the drawer. On the left, a ball of rubber bands, a small figurine of a tiger, two cashed pillbottles, safety pins, and a keychain flashlight. Among many other little things. Jessica’s elegant, almost glove-like hands became increasingly errant and frantic as the junk-drawer molehills grew into mountains. At around thirty seconds of searching and swiping they began to develop an arthritic shake, her fingertips oscillating in unison like anxietal Richter pens. Fifteen seconds later, the space between either mountain mined skeletal, she flattened her palms on the now-bare center of the drawer. The muscles trembled still, shaking the drawer just slightly, but the downward pressure kept her fingers captive, servile. Minor victories. Ten tiny consolation prizes. 

She swore, loudly; fought off the urge to weep; shuffled the junk and began digging again. 

It's the perfect timin': You see that man shining? Get up off them god damn diamonds.