The rush of water out of the faucet and the steady tick of the bold faced clock on the wall are the only sounds I hear as I fill the coffee pot to the twelve cup marker. Twisting the knob on the sink, I take the pot over to the machine and pour it in slowly, making sure none of it spills on the redwood table. The door opens with the slow creak of one who doesn't know if they should come in or not. Yes, Cynthia? I have your schedule for today, Sir. Very well, let's hear it. The rustle of papers follows as she searches for the right page. The sound of coffee brewing and the aroma of arabic beans fills the air, searching and finding my scent glands. You have a 9 A.M. appointment in Alden, happy couple, no kids. I see. After that you have a 11 A.M. appointment, elderly gentleman. Wait, Cynthia. Yes, Sir? ...Nevermind, go on. I can hear the coffee dripping unevenly in the slow filling pot, adding counter-harmony to the static sound of the tick-tock. Tick-drip-tock-drip-drip-tick-tock-drip-drip-drip. What was that last one, Cynthia? 4 P.M. another Alden appointment Sir, engaged kids. You know those young types. Yes, Sir. That will be all, Cynthia. The door closes, leaving the lingering scent of perfume and day old sex to blend in my nostrils with the charcoal black coffee. She is an able girl, though she was once a client. Back in those days, I never felt I did anything wrong. I just did my job.
The slosh of the coffee mixing with the creamer creates a tie-dyed mess in my Hello Kitty mug, a gift from Cynthia last Christmas. I sit at my redwood desk, bought in a matching set with the table, and look out the window. Cloudy out, least these people won't be in good moods due to the weather. What was that, Sir? Damn, I must have hit the intercom again. Nothing, Cynthia, go back to work. Yes, Sir. Good girl, that is. I look across the room at my work clothes hanging from a hook, covered in plastic, signaling that she took them to the dry cleaner. Damn fine girl. Polishing off my cup, I stand up and go with reluctance to those dreary garments. Sliding the plastic off with the hiss normally heard from cheap, thin plastics. Wrapping myself in the cloak of midnight, I look at the clock as I button up the front. 8:30 A.M. I might be able to pick up some Egg McMuffins before I have my appointment, Cynthia loves those, and it would be a nice gesture for the woman who keeps this office in tip-top shape. I open the door and walk over to a rack sitting near the door. Cynthia, have you had breakfast yet? No, Sir. Well, don't pick up anything while I'm out, I will bring something back for us. Thank you, Sir. Forward my calls to the Iphone. Of course, Sir. I slide my old scythe out from the rack and head out the door, jingling the little pumpkin bell I bought for Halloween, which we have yet to take down. I should really get Cynthia to get on that soon. With a sigh, I head out into the sunlight, waving to the shopkeeper next door just to keep up relations. I swear, I'm getting too old for this.
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