My Secretary, Your Assistant
WHO: Roma and Ivan
WHEN: Wednesday August 18th, Late Afternoon
WHERE: Ivan's Office
WHAT: Roma goes to investigate Raivis's other area of employment... while Ivan is there.
He understood, to say the least - as if “least” was only visible under a microscope - why Raivis left his shift in a hurry. It wasn’t troubling; it reminded Ivan of a rodent dashing under a dresser to avoid the claws of a cat. What was troubling was the fact that he had paperwork tucked away with a different signature scribbled at the foot of the page; when Ivan wore an expression of dread upon leaving for his shift at the restaurant, Raivis wore an expression of relief when venturing to his secondary employment.
This happened to be one of the rare days when Ivan was not expected A la Bon Séjour, but his secretary was expected, presumably and obviously, someplace where his affiliation with the Vargas family resided. Raivis, with his strange paperwork mingled with the files Ivan left on his desk, was crossing the street, and his - one of two - boss was scissoring the blinds apart with his forefinger and middle finger. The light of a clouded day fell across his viole(n)t eyes, and then plunged into shadow when that hand slipped back into his pocket.
The Doctor sat at his desk, pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, and browsed the first few lines of an insurance policy. Even if he didn’t plan to read past the introductory lines, an untimely knock on his door did interrupt him. With a rouse scramble to his secretary’s office, he shuffled through the neat little stacks until one revealed today’s schedule: no clients past 4 pm. It was clearly 4:17, unless he was reading the clock over his shoulder incorrectly.
He gave the door a quizzical look, then, as if on cue, another knock sounded, and the Psychiatrist was on the move again - not towards the door, but away from it. It was probably a solicitor, damn Americans, and he didn’t need another vacuum cleaner or expensive rewards card from the nearby schools.
So he wandered past his secretary’s desk, through the oak door of his office, and collapsed on the therapists’ couch with the back of his wrist resting on the bridge of his nose. Even if it was dark in his office with the blinds closed so tightly, he could still see a difference in lighting through his eyelids. ’Go away,’ he breathed, at the more assertive knock.
He barely registered the sound of the door opening.
WHEN: Wednesday August 18th, Late Afternoon
WHERE: Ivan's Office
WHAT: Roma goes to investigate Raivis's other area of employment... while Ivan is there.
He understood, to say the least - as if “least” was only visible under a microscope - why Raivis left his shift in a hurry. It wasn’t troubling; it reminded Ivan of a rodent dashing under a dresser to avoid the claws of a cat. What was troubling was the fact that he had paperwork tucked away with a different signature scribbled at the foot of the page; when Ivan wore an expression of dread upon leaving for his shift at the restaurant, Raivis wore an expression of relief when venturing to his secondary employment.
This happened to be one of the rare days when Ivan was not expected A la Bon Séjour, but his secretary was expected, presumably and obviously, someplace where his affiliation with the Vargas family resided. Raivis, with his strange paperwork mingled with the files Ivan left on his desk, was crossing the street, and his - one of two - boss was scissoring the blinds apart with his forefinger and middle finger. The light of a clouded day fell across his viole(n)t eyes, and then plunged into shadow when that hand slipped back into his pocket.
The Doctor sat at his desk, pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, and browsed the first few lines of an insurance policy. Even if he didn’t plan to read past the introductory lines, an untimely knock on his door did interrupt him. With a rouse scramble to his secretary’s office, he shuffled through the neat little stacks until one revealed today’s schedule: no clients past 4 pm. It was clearly 4:17, unless he was reading the clock over his shoulder incorrectly.
He gave the door a quizzical look, then, as if on cue, another knock sounded, and the Psychiatrist was on the move again - not towards the door, but away from it. It was probably a solicitor, damn Americans, and he didn’t need another vacuum cleaner or expensive rewards card from the nearby schools.
So he wandered past his secretary’s desk, through the oak door of his office, and collapsed on the therapists’ couch with the back of his wrist resting on the bridge of his nose. Even if it was dark in his office with the blinds closed so tightly, he could still see a difference in lighting through his eyelids. ’Go away,’ he breathed, at the more assertive knock.
He barely registered the sound of the door opening.