Chapter 4 #3
I sneak in and sit on the chair beside him, knees below my chin, then change the sports channel to the same rom-com the girls are watching in the other room.
I mute the sound because I am not allowed to be here, and God forbid Mara finds me.
I would clean chandeliers for weeks as punishment.
My phone vibrates—eight p.m. And I thought I could steal a few minutes to myself.
I have five minutes before I really need to get going; otherwise, I will miss my bus.
The movie is full of colors and pretty people dressed in eccentric clothing.
Everyone is smiling, and the love interest is not so bad.
Alright. I will run to the bus instead of walking if it means I can steal two more minutes.
Once my mental countdown is empty, I whisper silently, “I love you, Dad,” and kiss his forehead, leaving the bowl on his bedside table.
It is not like she is going to check on him.
The thought pinches my heart, and I give Dad one last glance before closing his door, the TV still on.
It’s just a movie, with actors and fake scenarios, but it is better than being alone in the dark.
In less than three minutes, I climb the stairs, grab my bag, and close the front door, knowing no one will be looking for me.
God forbid anything ever happened to me.
Mara would not even care if it did. I quicken my step, warmed by a thick lavender sweater I added under my blue jean jacket, where I sewed a little butterfly patch on the fabric of the left pocket.
Squeezing the handle of the bag on my shoulder like a vice, I try to regulate my breathing.
Don’t look like you have five thousand dollars in cash in your bag.
It is not a big deal. At all. The bus pulls in the moment I cross the last street, and I run to it, stepping inside one second before the doors close. Phew. That was close.
There are not many people, as usual. A shady man with a hood on at the back, looking down.
A guy my age with a backpack and glasses, which, strangely, reassures me a little.
And an old lady, who I like to imagine is the boss of a cartel hiding in plain sight, since no one would ever suspect an old woman with a silk scarf of having a thrilling life.
Or maybe she is just coming home from bingo night.
I sit near her, hoping to appease my beating heart, and focus on the road and the stars, glowing across the city, shining a warm hello to us, workers of the dark hours, invisible and silent.
“The moonlight,” I hear the lady murmur, pointing at the glowing light in the sky.
“Pretty like the moonlight.” She smiles at me, wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, kindness radiating from her.
I let out a silent chuckle, point at the moon, then at her.
She huffs with amusement, and we remain there, in comfortable silence, until my stop.
Icy and sharp, the air is unforgiving tonight. My steps quicken toward the shelter of the Ashford entrance, the building so tall you would have to break your neck to see the top floor from the sidewalk.
“Miss Ella,” Ronny greets me from behind his desk, his worried gaze landing on my hand.
I give him a thumbs-up, showing him the clean bandage I changed in Dad’s bedroom, since the nurse always leaves some there.
“How are you feeling? Are you sure you’re up for it, young lady?
” I nod several times, showing him that I can fold and unfold my hand easily.
“An-ja,” I mouth, exaggerating the syllables, which earns me a much more serious frown. I repeat it until he gasps.
“Oh, you mean, I wasn’t sure you’d… yes, she arrived ten minutes ago, but I’m afraid she’s already started.
She told me to tell you she’d wait for you at one o’clock right here.
Dare I say, and I quote her, ‘One o’clock sharp.
’” I let out a chuckle, my vocal cords allowing a blur of breath to escape my mouth.
At least I will see a friendly face soon.
I wave at Ronny, wondering how he doesn't end up bored to death after waiting all night.
Perhaps he enjoys it. Working at night is different.
Everyone seems more raw somehow, more vulnerable, as if darkness releases another version of ourselves, one we cannot let out in daylight.
Feral, closer to who we are, the fight against our biological clock sharpening the traits we usually keep contained.
The thirty-second floor seems empty of human life, the city glowing in the distance, the same lamp as last night casting a coral shade over the lounge area.
It may be a corporate place, but tonight there is a sense of shelter here, like a fireplace after a long day in the snow, or the flame of a candle during a power outage.
I put on my audiobook and get to work, vacuuming, dusting, polishing.
I try not to look too closely at my surroundings when I work, to avoid the risk of losing focus in my imagination, which happens far too often for my liking.
Except I cannot help it, and so I notice family photos on desks, a signed baseball on someone’s shelf, a book of poetry on another.
They wear suits, but that does not mean they lack complexity.
Moving from one office to another, I hope to make a real difference for these people, so they can enter their offices tomorrow and find them clean, fresh, and ready for the day.
Hours pass, and I am almost done. Only one office remains.
The handle turns in my hand, his name shining bright silver on the door.
Tristan Ashford, CEO.
I try not to think of him, of the sound of his voice and the veins in his hands.
I try not to think of the scent permeating the air, made of soap and aftershave and something indistinctly masculine, wrapping me in a cover made of comfort.
Removing my earphones, I step into his sanctuary made of steel and sharp edges, empty of life, with a photograph of a sailboat cutting through the sea, white waves consuming most of the lower half.
Not really above. Not really under. I pay more attention to every centimeter of his office, making sure it is spotless and ready.
It’s past midnight when I’m done. Fatigue catches me, and I look at the buildings shining all around me, multicolored spots, billboards, and car lights.
There is noise out there, and I kneel close to the window, sitting back on my thighs, watching it like a movie.
Insignificant. Transparent. The world, oblivious to my existence.
Was it the same for Mom? Did she ever feel as if her presence did not matter?
Or is it a curse I’ve been plagued with?
My lips shake, and I have the distinct thought that if someone were to cover my mouth and nose, if someone were to stop me from breathing, I could die watching this view. That it might be peaceful.
I lied to Ronny earlier. My hand aches now that I am done, and I look down at my palm, at the slight line of red admitting the truth.
Five minutes.