𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑⁰¹ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ✓

⁷⁰shoved in glass

clementine

"Mr Ansley, I assure you that your painting will be delivered with utmost care," I say in a confident tone over my phone, trying to type away as quietly as I can. "Don't worry,"

Ellie's email address pops up in my inbox and I quickly click on it to respond to her question of "Any other requests he asked to add on?"

Mr Ansley's croaky, old voice mutters. "Yes, yes… I'll take your word for it, Miss Ivers. This is for my wife's anniversary present, you know," He says this, though sounding mostly to himself, quite proudly.

I nod, swallowing down the information for the nth time. "Yes, I'm aware. You mentioned this in your first email," And the second, and our first call.

He's only been our client since two weeks ago, but he talks to everyone as though they're his neighbours. I don't think I've met an old man as giddy as he seems to be. Though, quite forgetful, I don't mind it.

Glancing at the orange post-it stuck on the corner of my laptop screen, I type in Ellie's response. "Yeah, he wants 'Forty-six years with you come and gone; Never have I found someone better to lean on' written on a fuchsia card, stuck onto the painting packaging paper."

Mr Ansley hums, as if something isn't quite right. "Hm… seems I did," He gives a low chuckle, one that reminds me of the typical depictions of Santa Claus. "She used to paint, loved her studio perhaps more than me,"

A fond smile creeps onto my lips. "Does she still not paint?" I ask, my smile faltering when he silences, which I'm getting the faint sense that it's unlike him.

I hear him hide away a sigh, his tone changing in demeanor, far calmer now. "Um… no. No longer, unfortunately, but I like to think she can appreciate art just the same as she did when she was young,"

I straighten, wishing I hadn't asked now that I'm missing his previous giddy self. "Oh, well, I hope she likes this one," I purse my lips and look out the window, the street lit solely by street and gate lamps, barely surviving the darkness this evening.

Today's fatigue is slowly catching up, a slender hand on my shoulder and weighing me down. I just want to sleep until the weekend comes.

Everyone else went home early, leaving me to sit alone in the vast office-like space with Rebecca, who, I've noticed, habitually returns home late and last, always still painting when everyone's packed up and gone.

Tonight's not an exception, it's just that I'm here managing some packing requests due to a slight addition on the order.

I didn't work on the painting, Ellie did, but I have to be the one to relay the news.

"I'm sure she will," Mr Ansley replies, snapping me out of my own thoughts. "So that'll be it, then?"

I huff out a breath as I read over the email, nodding. "Yep, that's it. The painting should arrive at the address you sent in about three business days. The number you provided should also receive a call when it arrives,"

"Understood," He says firmly. "Well, Miss Ivers, I hope you have a good rest of your evening,"

When we end the call, I'm left to stare blankly at the hard white light of my laptop, the order no longer words, but a vague, senseless alignment of lines to my enervated brain.

I slump down into my chair and stare across at Rebecca, her back to me as she stabs a puzzled look at her painting palette, knife in hand, earbuds on, that seemingly ever-present furrow still sitting on her brows.

I watch as she mixes something in her palette, swiping the paint up on the knife and putting it side by side a printed photo propped up on her desk.