Order 73 ~DNF~

𝟘𝟝

𝒟𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 𝒫𝒪𝒱

I look up to watch George's eyes slowly begin to flutter shut. He finds a warm spot in his elbow and buries his face into it, knocked out in about three seconds. I set my jaw back into my palm and look back at my screen,

"-shit," I inhale sharply through the word.

It's already five in the morning, my laptop is at eight percent, and the download I have running is only at fifteen. I work with computers all day. Digging through my briefcase to no avail, I sigh in annoyance. How the fuck do I not have a portable charger?

I hop off the stool, stretching with the aid of the table. It's strangely silent in the small cafe. There weren't even birds chirping outside or the occasional cicada. The only sounds were when George accidentally moved his stool trying to adjust into a comfortable position. Considering he's four feet off the ground and sitting on a chair with no back, it's not gonna happen.

The wooden floorboards creak when I push the coffee bar gate open, feeling around to find the teapot I spotted earlier. Pouring myself the rest, the lukewarm liquid is down in one go. Hopefully that'll keep me conscious until I can get some actual coffee into my system.

My generic lockscreen blinds my eyes and I wince, lowering the brightness. I might as well change my status to online. It's a relatively new idea that one of my colleagues came up with. Obviously during the work day your status is to be online the whole time, but if you decide to go overtime, other people who might need your help can contact you without worrying about possibly waking you up or intruding on free time.

I pack up the few papers I had gotten out, tucking it into my briefcase and snapping it shut.  Leaning down, I plug my laptop into the socket. I'm going to have to leave it here. It's not like George can steal it.

The soft zip and the click of my pen makes George shift, snuggling into himself for warmth. Either that was a coincidence or he's an inconveniently light sleeper. I scribble out a small message on the orange post-it and sign my loopy signature out of habit.

I stare at his sleeping figure for a split second and stand up. I'd hate for his keyboard to be ruined with post-it glue. I'll be nice just this once.

I stick the note right smack in the middle of his forehead out of the pure goodness of my soul. George barely twitches at the contact and I observe him in quiet amazement. So definitely not a light sleeper if that didn't wake him up.

I grab Olivia's folder off the table and make sure to lock the door behind me before heading out into the humid night, climbing into my car and turning on the radio. The radio lady's familiar voice fills the small space and I lean back into the leather seat.

The house is as eerily quiet as the cafe. Even Dad is asleep. Usually you can hear him typing away at his keyboard early in the morning, or mapping out everything his mind supplies to him on the huge whiteboard that covers his side wall. I guess even he sleeps in on Sundays.

I creep up the stairs, anxiety spiking because of the stupid floating stairs Mom thought were a good idea. One foot slip and I'm wedged in between two slabs of marble, ten feet off the ground. The world's stupidest chandelier.

The door slides open soundlessly and I slip into my room, heading into the closet. I pull on some black slacks and tuck the button-up navy shirt into the waistband, adding a black belt to keep it in place. Folding the shirt up to my elbows, I flip off the light of the walk-in closet, not bothering to fasten the last two buttons at my neck.

I also forgo the suit jacket. Leia was telling me yesterday that the best students from universities around here were visiting the top companies in the city to get some experience. My assistant rarely has in-depth discussions on trivial things, so it must be a big deal. If they do decide to apply for a job, I want them to see that formality isn't necessary one hundred percent of the time.