Not Gray, Diet Black

Carl the Flamingo fidgeted in the scratchy office chair, mindlessly screwing the cap of his water bottle ON and OFF. He supposed if he got bored enough, he could always make up fake constellations by staring at the holes in the insulated ceiling tiles. The room was gray and drab, the harsh fluorescent light illuminated the stains on the threadbare burgundy carpet. The smell of industrial air freshener mixed with bile was making him feel nauseated.