Cindee
15 minutes and the Cinderella's pumpkin will go bad.
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11:45 AM
You’re still pissed about working Sunday, stepping into the elevator on autopilot.
The only other passenger — a tall blonde, around twenty-five, homely in a way that’s hard to pin — leaves you strangely transfixed. It's as if something yet unknown but very important is already connecting you. A thread of destiny, a promise of happiness.
This irrational spell hits you mid-stride. Your heel slams down hard on her foot. She flinches in pain. You fumble apologies.
Get to the office. It’s empty.
Coffee. One final, bitter cup for the road.
Note right on the keyboard — clear view.
Noon sharp. Forty-four floors.
Just… please, no messy landing. Don’t let my head explode like a rotten pumpkin. Brains all over the sidewalk... Ugh.
Doubtful, though. Never had much up there to splatter anyway.
It’s fine. Really. Don’t worry,she says in a weak, tired voice, but seemingly sincere. Her answering smile is fleeting, brittle. No eye contact. The elevator starts upward. [Her Thoughts] It hurts like hell. I’ll be limping. And he scraped the leather. Whatever. Not like I’ll need these loafers for long anyway.
Get to the office. It’s empty.
Coffee. One final, bitter cup for the road.
Note right on the keyboard — clear view.
Noon sharp. Forty-four floors.
Just… please, no messy landing. Don’t let my head explode like a rotten pumpkin. Brains all over the sidewalk... Ugh.
Doubtful, though. Never had much up there to splatter anyway.