The Art of Doing Nothing
The sun hung low over the city, casting long golden streaks through the wide window of Bumbly’s apartment. Inside, a mellow jazz record spun slowly on the turntable, the soft hiss of vinyl accompanying the muted hum of the city outside.
Bumbly, nestled in his custom reclined wheelchair with a pillow tucked behind his head just the way he liked it, sipped lazily from a tall glass of iced whisky through a bendy straw. The drink was smoky and smooth, just like the afternoon. He gazed up at the ceiling, then toward the window, watching dust motes swirl like slow-dancing fireflies in the amber light.
He had a to-do list. A fairly long one. But the paper was still stuck to the fridge, where it had been for three days. Maybe four. He’d started writing it after Zippy’s latest burst of pep talk energy, full of cheer and concern and affection. She’d stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, calling him “her favorite procrastinating panda” and nudging him to take on one thing at a time.
He had considered it. Briefly.
But now, as his playlist eased into a gentle bossa nova rhythm and the shadows lengthened, he decided that today was about something else entirely.
Today was about noticing.
The way the light pooled in the corners of his bookcase.
The distant laughter of children in the courtyard below.
The comforting hum of his fish tank, the neon tetras darting like tiny stars between plants.
He let his thumb nudge the controls of his chair slightly to the left, just enough to face the window more directly. The sky was melting into peach and lavender. He liked sunsets best when he could really see them—when they weren’t just a backdrop to busyness, but a living canvas for quiet minds.
On a whim, Bumbly called up his smart display with a voice command. “Show me new jazz releases.”
As the suggestions popped up, he smirked. A modern piano trio caught his eye. “Play that one,” he murmured.
The first track began—a soft, expressive melody tinged with melancholy. Bumbly closed his eyes and let it wash over him. This was his kind of therapy. No pressure, no performance. Just feeling. Just being.
Later, he might heat up leftover chicken curry. Or not. There was a good burger place that delivered until 11.
He thought about Zippy, out there somewhere in a blur of movement and empathy and energy. She’d probably be teasing him again soon, dropping by unannounced with something vintage and ridiculous from a thrift store, or climbing onto the bed to sprawl beside him and talk about her latest naughty story idea.
He smiled softly. Soon. But for now...
He sipped his drink again and exhaled deeply.
In Bumbly’s world, doing nothing wasn’t laziness.
It was an art.