“Geraldine.”
Roger’s dulcet tones grated against Gillian’s ear drums.
“Yes, Roger,” she said.
“Can I get you to clarify the discrepancy on this claim?”
She swiveled in her seat and grabbed the piece of paper Roger held out to her. Scanning the itemized claim, she quickly spotted the discrepancy in question. Someone signed off on an insurance claim for $975 on a thirty-day sample of Forever Pharma’s patented ED pills, KPRup X4. The samples were generally given to providers at no cost.
“I’ll take care of it, Roger.”
“Good,” Roger said. “I knew you’d handle it. When you’re done, show the new hire how to enter data. Accounting is sending over a big stack of new claims that you’ll need his help on.”
“I’m sure I can do the new claims alone, Roger,” Gillian said.
The last thing she wanted was to share her sacred space with an annoying temp who’d probably be gone by tomorrow.
Roger shrugged slowly. The baggy, yellowing dress shirt that hung on his scarecrow-like frame rustled unpleasantly. “Accounting said you’re supposed to work with him. Give him the complete tour of the process.”
Roger waited for a moment before deciding that she wasn’t going to respond. As he turned and shuffled off down the hall to his office, Gillian clutched the claim so tightly in her hand that it crumpled into a loose paper ball.
Enjoy the good times while they last because something terrible is about to happen.
The Fourth Chapter
As Gillian leaned against the tile counter of her kitchen island, she watched the dieter’s single serve entrée rotate through the tiny window in the door of the microwave.
Today had felt like an especially awful form of torture. In summary:
Almost got killed by a bike.
Could have been killed on the toilet. Luckily didn’t.
Got burned to hell by flaming hot coffee.
Was shadowed all day by a temp. Definitely the worst. This should be number 1 on the bad shit list.
The ding of the microwave timer signaled that her tasteless, 100 calorie, low sodium, gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan dinner was ready for consumption. Yummy.
Gillian sat at her tiny dining room table on the less wobbly of the two chairs, and ate her meal without gusto. She wouldn’t call the solitary life she lived sad. Or lonely. Those things would imply that she would feel better off in the company of another person. But to Gillian, being in the company of others was hell. She was comfortable by herself, at a tiny table in a tiny dining room/kitchen/living room in a tiny apartment with no one to have to share the tiny space with.
She enjoyed dining alone where no one would have to hear her chew. Or, god forbid, where she would have to hear another person chew. She enjoyed having the TV remote to herself, even though she hadn’t turned the TV on in so long it would be a miracle if it still worked. She enjoyed having the entire bed to herself, even though it was so damn cold in her apartment that she always curled up in a tight, teeth chattering ball until she managed to shiver herself to sleep at night. And most of all, she enjoyed the quiet; the utter silence that saturated the foot-thick cinderblock construction. It was the single marketable amenity of the flat, but a good one.
Dropping the now empty food tray and plastic fork into the otherwise empty kitchen trash can, Gillian grabbed a bleach wipe from the economy sized tub under the sink and wiped down the table for crumbs. And the chair. And all of the kitchen counters. And the inside and outside of the microwave for good measure. Then she spent the next hour and a half cleaning her apartment from top to bottom, like she did every day.
Gillian suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and had pirouetted right over the border line of Antisocial Personality Disorder. In fact, her need to control everything and everyone around her, preferably without actually making real human contact with one more person than was absolutely necessary, kept her in a constant state of heightened anxiety. She wrangled this mental beast into submission through strenuous deep cleaning. Ahh the relaxing scritch scratch of the gritty green cleanser scrubbing the porcelain sink. The eek eek of the blue sponge scrubbing the already spotless linoleum tiles. Soothing.
Gillian flipped the wall switch beside the sparkling stovetop into the off position. In the dimness of the kitchen/dining room/living room that was so clean it glistened, a haphazard stutter of hazy yellow light outlined the door to the circa 1980s almond colored Frigidaire.
She watched in lurid fascination as the faint flashes flared in a staccato rhythm from the glowing appliance like a telegraph machine’s precise code. S.O.S. HELP. Or was it: Feed Me?
Her heels clacked against the linoleum tiles that she’d just been face to face with, hand scrubbing aggressively against the dirt that clung just beneath the surface. Grasping the wide, molded plastic handle, she pulled the door open. A tiny light bulb sputtered pathetically, letting out a faint hmmm of electricity like the whine of a sad dog.
Gillian would never be able to sleep with all of this erratic light and faint racket. In the next room. Through thick walls and closed doors. Burrowed under her blankets.
Gripping the warm bulb with her fingertips, she twisted it free of its socket. As the glass orb dropped the millimeters through infinite space to her palm, the kitchen/dining room/living room fell into blessed darkness and sublime quiet. Gillian dropped the bulb into the waste bin. She’d rather have no light in the fridge than suffer from an excess of it.
Gillian marched into her bathroom and pulled back the pure white shower curtain to crank the knob to HOT. As she waited for the water
