this is not what i do
Alya has had a long day, but then, few of her days are short and simple any more. She spends the first half of it in the office, sorting through paperwork and fielding phone calls she handles in terse, clipped Russian or English (no Spanish right now, apparently), and the second half of it making her rounds. When the boss shows up unexpectedly there is always a bit of a stumble, but today she came upon something unexpected, and while she has no reason to doubt that the problem will be immediately remedied, it still jars her.
This is not an institution of trust that she lives in. The people whose lives she exerts some control over, they don't allow it because they like her. Some of them don't even respect her. She settles for fear, and pushes for that respect, waiting for it to lower down like a curtain. It will happen.
Or she'll have them killed. That's their other option--one she presumes they'd rather not discover.
Right now, she's attempting to unwind, however. It's after dinner, after the hour she can expect anyone to call for her barring some kind of crisis. She has a long, leisurely bath and wanders around her apartment in a robe, floorboards creaking under her footsteps. The place is empty, of course, but even in Manhattan it's really only the illusion of solitude. She'd only have to step outside to surround herself with people. Which is the same thing, isn't it? Right.
It's not like she can get a dog, anyway.