Handling It.

1. A Leaky Podcast.

I groaned as I was awoken by the sound of my cat, Tabasco, yowling in the courtyard below my window. I stretched out my hand and fumbled around my bedside table for my phone, barely opening one eye against the harsh light of the screen. My alarm wouldn't be going off for another half an hour, but I was already awake and if I tried to go back to sleep now I'd feel like garbage all day. I flung the heavy blanket off of my legs and curled myself up against the cold air that enveloped me. I could feel sweat gluing my short, satin nightgown to my skin and I tried to push away thoughts of the nightmare I had been trapped in all night. 

I swung around and planted my bare feet in the soft grey rug beside my bed and lifted myself to my feet. I pulled the lavender fabric off of my body and let it pool around my feet before making my way into the adjoining bathroom.

The water was hot, but relaxing as I stepped under my showerhead a few minutes later. I was a few short hours away from meeting a new client for the company I worked for. A small one this time, apparently. My thoughts were consumed with the to-do list for the day as I tried to wash away the nightmare that hung off the corners of my mind.

8:30– Meet at the café near Flinder's Street Station that serves the all day breakfast.
(establish a list of wants, needs, essentials, and a blacklist) Booth A.
10:30 – Podcast recording at Nyte FM.
1:15 – Lunch at Sushi Train. Private room.
2:30 – Talk at the music academy
4:00 – Phone interview with The Chord magazine
6:00 – Reservation at the fusion food restaurant / karaoke bar in that weird ally.

I had never been one for street names, place names, or people names, but I knew enough about where they were and how to get in touch with them. It wasn't my job to know their names anyway, it was my job to copy them into an email one time to send to a coordinator, tell them the times of things, then show up when I was supposed to.

Half an hour later, I pressed begin on my coffee machine, and wandered back towards my bedroom to figure out what I would be wearing for the day. I settled on an emerald chiffon blouse that cinched at the waist, a pair of tailored black cigarette pants, and some black pumps with a chunky heel. I stepped back from the full length mirror and assessed the overall look. The emerald green stood out against my pale skin, and overall it was an effective look. I threw my long, thick brown hair into a messy ponytail at the back of my head as I heard my coffee machine beeping in the kitchen.

By the time I was sliding into the leather seat of my Blue Lexus LC and punching in the directions of the parking lot nearest to the place I was meeting them at I was on my third cup of coffee. I had spent the better part of the night before looking into the client, and I understood the hype that they were generating. Watching them made me miss playing music, and I found myself considering giving up what little spare time I had in the day to take it back up. That seemed to be fairly common amongst their audience though. They called themselves TwoSet, and I was surprised with how fitting a nonsensical term could be.

Twenty five minutes later I was escorted into a private booth in the back of the restaurant to wait for the men. I smiled at the host as he took my black trenchcoat from me and retreated further back into the building to check it for me. The space around me was lit just enough to be able to see the menu without having to pull out a phone light for assistance, but not so light that you retained much concept of time. The wall at the back of the booth was covered in reclaimed wood, and the entire restaurant was covered artfully in architectural salvage and interesting art. I couldn't tell you what the owners were going for in the way they had designed their establishment, but it carried a generally nice atmosphere. The service was great, the food was amazing, and the coffee was life changing. Nobody really knew about it though. It was in a small Alleyway you could easily mistake as being just an alleyway. Usually I would escort people from the street, but when I spoke to them, Brett had insisted they'd find it okay. There was a fine line in my work between being accommodating and being stifling, and I prided myself on the ability to not push too far in the wrong direction. People don't like to know they're being coddled.