𝙜𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙚, ᴘᴜɴᴋ, and 𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖑 | one-shots

tim mcilrath, 1

You’ve got mail!

“Fuck you,” you snapped.

The notification rang through the still air on a particularly muggy evening. You sat, shirt stuck to your skin with sweat, despite an open window and the direct blow of an electric fan. The papers that scattered your desk would have flown away had it not been for the assorted office supplies anchoring them. A stapler here, some scissors there, and coffee cups with a little coffee still left in them. All together, making your work conditions a bit more bearable.

'Some conditions,' you thought. Bringing your work back home like you were some high school kid all over again, scrambling together the shambles of an essay all in one night. Sticky notes stuck onto any surface available with the unintelligible scribblings of an over-caffeinated workaholic. Grueling, unending, thankless work.

Oh well, at least you got paid. 

Was it worth it?

Eh, probably not.

You hovered your cursor over the email tab and watched the tiny envelope icon open up to reveal an even tinier paper.

‘Cute,’ you thought, ‘and deceptive.’

You did it a few more times, with a blank expression plastered on your face, as the paper went in.

Then out.

Then in.

Then out.

Then in again.

Postponing the inevitability of what would, undoubtedly, lead to more work; all of the others had. “Finish this, fax that,” the sort of monotony you’d only expect in the most satirical of black comedies. Clicking that unassuming little envelope icon would be metaphorical suicide.

You glanced at the corner of the screen.

3:27 AM.

“Fuck,” you cursed, letting your body relax, as much as you could, into the ratty black office chair. The one you still hadn’t gotten around to replacing.

‘Maybe,’ you thought, ‘ I can give my boss some bullshit excuse. A powerline fell on my car and my computer shut down and I lost all my progress! My grandmother fell terribly ill and I had to nurse her back to health! Hell, maybe something as lazy as a dog eating it.’

‘Just fucking anything.'

“Ugh,” you let your head hit the desk with a thud.

“Pretty late, hm?”

You spun your chair around, recognizing the voice almost immediately. Your boyfriend leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded, in a gray long-sleeve that was just tight enough to outline his arm muscles— the top button, left undone. Donning black sweats, and white socks.

“Tim?” You asked, taken aback, “what’re you doing up?”

He shrugged. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I…” you paused. “I’m still working.”

“Still? It’s three in the morning, you know.”

“I, uh, do know,” you admitted.

He narrowed his eyes.

“What’re you working on?”

“More of the most boring work in the world,” you replied “same shit, different day.”

Tim hummed in agreement. Although, truthfully, you didn’t think he was agreeing with you. After all, he was a musician. A popular one at that. He was, on all accounts, his own boss. He did things without anyone breathing down his neck, except maybe the record label.