Precisely thirteen minutes later, she walked through the automatic front doors of the boxy, unattractive office building where she worked. Crossing the open expanse of beige tile, she entered the employee bathroom.
Inside her locker was a black pencil skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse. Unfortunately, there was not a change of undergarments. She would have to continue to wear the coffee stained ones. At least the unbearable heat outside on her way here from Java Joe’s was good for one thing. It had dried her out. Well, all but her shoes, which she now took off and stuffed with paper towels to soak up as much of the coffee as possible. And her purse. Oh boy. That thing made an almighty sloshing sound when she plopped it onto the counter by the sinks.
Removing her jacket, she set it beside the purse, revealing her previously white now sepia colored blouse in all its unholy glory. Gillian sighed in resignation. Some stains never come out. The only place for this blouse now was the circular bin. She chucked it into the waste can and stripped off her skirt, piling the offending garments in a perfectly folded little stack to take home later for washing.
Moving to the bank of lockers along one wall, she opened the tiny door to the locker in the exact center. Five from the left and right, five from the top and bottom. Perfect. As she reached inside for the change of clothes, the beige door to the beige bathroom swung open and the startled face of the socially awkward yet fashionably hip guy from the coffee haus blinked back at her.
Gillian stared in shock. Why did she feel like she’d seen this guy before? Not from the coffee shop. But from before… She shook her head to clear her mind. Don’t be ridiculous. From the coffee shop.
“What are you doing here?!” she snapped. “Are you stalking me?”
He laughed nervously, the weird little chuckle echoing strangely in the small space.
“No, no. I work here. Today is my first day. Do you work here too?”
A sarcastic reply threatened to bubble to the surface, but Gillian bit it back and just responded with a narrowing of her eyes and a flaring of her nostrils that spoke louder than any words.
He started to giggle again. God, that was painful. Thankfully, it died into a choked gurgle almost as quickly as it started.
“Anywho… I just need to…” He pointed at the row of beige stalls behind her.
“Hold it,” Gillian said.
Arlo backed slowly from the bathroom, letting the door swing shut with a snap.
Carrying the neat little stack of clean clothes to the counter, Gillian dressed quickly and rummaged around in the tiny jacuzzi of warm burnt coffee that her purse had become. Fighting against a gag reflex, she pulled out her lip liner and mascara. She looked in the mirror. Dark, damp hair spilled out crazily from what was left of her bun. Black lines of mascara dripped down her face like an emo clown.
Gillian wet a paper towel and cleaned up her no longer perfect makeup, touching it up as best as she could. Then she finger-combed the heavy locks of her coffee-soaked hair and pulled it back into some semblance of a bun. Mentally screaming, she forced a fake smile onto her painted face and slipped on the only slightly squishy heels and grabbed her burgundy bag, ignoring the splash of coffee that rippled out as it left the counter.
Sliding into her desk chair, Gillian dropped her purse onto the beige carpet, rolling quickly back to avoid the wave of tepid brown liquid that splashed out in a tiny tsunami of ick.
“Jean,” Roger’s voice carried listlessly from outside the door to her cubicle.
“Yes,” she responded without looking up from her computer monitor.
Roger had never bothered to learn her name. It might have annoyed her if he wasn’t so boring that she didn’t really care what he said or did. She just preferred to be anonymous worker number four.
“You have a trainee.”
Gillian’s fingers froze over the keyboard. No. Please, dear god, let it be some boring drone to rival Roger himself, or even one of the incessantly chatty socialite women who liked to meet at the coffee haus for cappuccinos at noon. That’s what she wanted to happen, and yet she knew with perfect certainty that when she turned her head, she would see a mid-thirties man in skinny jeans and sneakers, and a goofy grin. She knew it with every fiber of her being like she’d already seen him standing there.
“Oh! It’s you. Right on! Cool cool. Coolio.”
Arlo. Hipster from Hell. Her worst nightmare.
“So…” Arlo said, “What do we do here?”
“We don’t do anything,” Gillian said. “I enter billing reports. You go make photocopies.” She handed him a manila folder.
Arlo took the folder from her, a small nervous laugh escaping his lips as his fingers brushed hers for a moment. Gillian pulled her hand back like it was burnt, curling her fingers into a loose fist.
At her slight cringe, Arlo said, “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t bite.”
“I do,” Gillian said.
Arlo laughed, the sound quickly dying down to silence as he realized she wasn’t joking.
“Ummm…. Okay…” he stammered. “I’ll just go… make those copies.” He scurried off, his shoes making a faint scuffing sound against the carpet that set Gillian’s teeth on edge.
She closed her eyes in pain, the beginning throb of a headache forming at her temples. So, this was what torture felt like. Cool cool. Ugh.
Every day is another opportunity to ruin your life all over again.
