Head Office

by Emily Hanna

Genre: Fiction

I take a seat at my desk, like I do everyday.

Monday to Friday.

Nine to five.

My eyes hazily survey the surface, focusing in on my laptop screen as it stirs to life and begins to flash with missed notifications.

I consult my to-do list, adding in mundane tasks so it feels like I'm doing something useful.

 Make coffee ☐

Brainstorm ☐

I stir from my seat to make the coffee. One less thing to do.

Making my way from kitchen to computer, the office begins to come to life.

He’s always first to arrive. That office classic: old, tall and white, with an overwhelmingly cold demeanour and an icy stare. This isn’t what makes him so insufferable however, my aversion to him is because of his constant humming. All day, unrelenting and monotonous, he hums to himself like a madman. Completely oblivious to the dirty looks, and pointed coughs.

Gulping down hot coffee and typing with the loudest taps I can is my small act of resistance. My one woman revolution. I'll be as irritating and loud as Him then.

To no avail. He drones on.

She is the next to arrive.

I’ve never been a fan of loud people, and She is as loud as they come. From my desk, I can’t even see Her, but Her voice defies science and travels through the whole floor. Loud and repetitive. Talking round and round the same point, over and over again. Her only saving grace is that She usually crashes after a few hours of draining the life out of everyone around her. It’s a cycle. She’ll jabber and chinwag, gossip, chat and moan right up until She realises that no one is listening, that in fact, they’re just waiting for Her to be done.

I grit my teeth and decide to work with my earphones in. My thumb hovers between a Ted Talk and the new episode of a celebrity led gossip podcast.

Defeated; ashamed, I pick the latter and turn it up to full volume.

With my hearing successfully impaired by thoughtless nonsense I barely notice Him appear behind me. The resident office creep, always lingering uncomfortably. Like most office creeps, He’s shady and unattractive. Tall and pencil thin, making His unwavering narcissism quite impressive. I could nearly look past the loitering if it wasn't for the raging god complex. I’ve never met someone so sure, so confident, that their presence lights up a room. Absolutely no doubt that they are the best and the brightest. I relish at the thought of someday bringing Him down a peg or two.

Eager to remove myself from the glow of His imaginary halo, I decide it’s time for another coffee. I roll my neck left to right slowly hearing the tells of office chair posture click and creak inside me. I stand up and make my way to the shared kitchen where, to my dismay, I am not alone.

I swear He never leaves the kitchen. Another oldie. Old to the point he practically clicks when He moves. I try to stay on His good side though, this one is a total hot head. I lose count of the amount of times a day I see Him close to boiling point. Face glowing red, spitting angrily. I offer a tentative smile and stay out of His way in the already cramped kitchen.

Pouring hot water into my cup, I feel the room get smaller. I peek over my shoulder to see who's joined us.

My eyes almost roll out of my head. This guy is a total drip.

On first impression, He’d shown himself to be slick, cool, suave almost. Soon enough, He revealed himself to be pathetically dull and oddly panicky- bipolar almost. His behaviour going from hot to cold and back again countless times a day.

I close my eyes and picture the day I can wash my hands of Him for good. Then, exuding professionalism, I turn, wish Him a good morning, and stride out of the kitchen.

Reluctant to return to my post, and certain there is nothing urgent demanding my attention, I set my mind on my favourite detour.

Taking the long route back- a time thief in action- I pay a visit to my favourite co-worker. She’s also a bit older, but tolerable, unlike the rest. Her cheeriness painting her complexion slightly red. She's kind and warm like a familiar hug, always ready to wrap an arm around or offer a word of comfort. My finding refuge here is becoming a daily occurrence, each visit stretching longer than the last.

When I finally peel myself away from her, the doorbell rings.

I stand up sliding into the fluffy slippers at my feet. Consulting the peep hole in my apartment door I see the usual delivery driver bearing an armful of cardboard packages.

No stranger to me in pyjamas during working hours, he’s already impatiently tapping his foot.

I catch myself in the mirror, suddenly aware of my appearance. Quickly, I tuck unruly hairs behind my ears and smooth the wrinkles of my toothpaste stained tee shirt.

Better.

Swinging open the door, he hands me my parcel and snaps a photo. A poorly-framed, blurry picture of my welcome mat, my slippers peeking in the top left corner, his hand gripping the parcel just visible in the bottom right. I thank him, making sure to mention that I’ve got to get back to work.

He offers up a nod.

Once the door clicks shut I wander through the hallway, now eerily silent bar the hum of the fridge. My eyes are torn between the red sofa and the laptop sitting on the kitchen table.

The washing machine sings out to tell me my load of darks has finished.

Hang out washing ☐

She’s met with a sigh as I sink back into the comfortable folds of the deep red sofa cushions.

Still warm.