The Cycle

Chapter Two

The shimmers of sunlight pierced the shutters of her danty room, and illuminated it with morning goodness, yet she groaned, whipped the bed sheet overhead, and hid from awful light. She was not a morning person. Her hand slithered from underneath the sheets in search of her phone, which was on the bedside stool.

There were two notifications: credit notifications. She bounced into a sitting position, then wiped the sleep crust from her eyes. Five thousand and fifty thousand cred. It was the failed transaction from last night; It didn't fail after all, just a delayed receipt. But now, one held an extra zero more. A mistake, probably.

Abel Nnadi, the name tagged to receipt. A dilemma rested before her; a quick trip to the bank, and it could be resolved, but not before the customer care stared at her like she'd gone mad. What kind of person returned free money, and she needed the money. Memories of him flashed through her mind; his eyes, his smile, the casual and free air about him; he wouldn't mind she thought, this was probably change to him.

A quick search through the social portal, and she came up empty. The hashtag 'engagement' with related tags, weddings bells and such, linked to his name, still nothing. It was odd; a post or video of his proposal — it was the new vogue now — taking account of his class, would have made a bit of wave; except he hadn't gotten around to it yet.

She would keep silent for a while, he was probably a premier holder, so it won't be long before the bank got a hold of her, after he makes a complaint, which she hoped he wouldn't, for it would cover the tuition and textbooks, of her younger siblings for the semester.

"Fingers crossed."

***

The night held it dangers, but it held prospects in equal shades. The day was relatively safe, but its prospects were pitiful; slugging through a part time job — full time gigs were a rarity — unpacking and repacking boxes of products she couldn't afford; in a factory — that was stuffed to the brim with mountains made of cartons. And the hot air that moved about the high headroom and huge space, was baked with body odor, that  stemmed from those who hadn't bath in days and those who hadn't washed in millenia. And all the smell and discomfort, for peanuts at the end of day.

"The manager want to see you," said one of the clerks, and her stomach churned.

***

The office was spacious, at least twice the size her bedroom. She walked past the glass table on her right, which was ensquared by four cushions, then past the shelf stacked with books of various size, and stood in front of the polished brown table lined with stacks of folders and documents, and a pendulum that had a set of five silver balls — and the last ball on both sides, made a dull clink on impact.

"Have a seat," he said, "would you like something to drink?"

"No thank you."

Better not to take anything; she would offer less in return, for the manager — Marcus had the habit of squeezing out — every bit of goodwill, which he bestowed with laced intentions.

Cold air streamed out the vents — in full blast — yet she was hot. He knew of her nightly activities, and took advantage of it; he could have gotten those high class excorts, but he didn't. He paid. Yes he paid. But on dreaded occasions, it wasn't just him, and she found herself enclosed in a circle of towering men. The things she would do, and things they would do; but he paid, and they paid; there was rent, and the neverending medical bills; tuitions and necessites; and so she endured.

"I will need you this weekend," he said, "I'm hosting a couple of friends."

It was a dreaded occasion. She swallowed the lump in her throat.