Un-Matching Camille (18+)

Chapter Four| NYT For The Wilted Roses

|NYT For The Wilted Roses|

CAMILLE

The air is whooshing. Dry and mild, it lands on my skin. There's a silent buzz from the AC, one I reluctantly acknowledge with my neck trying out a new perfect semi-circle to its direction behind, and my eyes remaining on it for a moment as I study it for dents and try to make out how long its struggle has lasted for.

It's almost perfect. No cave in or blemishes at all. "Almost" perfect best describes it.

It irritates me.

I scoff, and settle back into the leather seat I'm fixed on, and my eyes begin to scamper about the place.

"This office is almost larger than my whole apartment," And noticing the awfully large space the second time, I can't help but gasp, "and he seems to be a minimalist too." I conclude. Notably the feel from the space isn't too large to be uncomfortable, with strategically placed furniture and ornaments including the white flooring and walls, making the place less heavy and calming on the mind.

I place my hand on the cold surface of the glass table abridging I and another equally settled in a leather chair before me, allowing a moment to the chill stinging my palms.

A middle-aged man in a plain white polo t-shirt and a khaki pant; a tennis shoe on his feet; and two tightly knitted brows hangs on his face as he sits before me. His breathing steady, and face full of ease birthed from the experience of having traversed the situation at hand in at least a million times.

My gaze doesn't linger on him, neither was his on me to begin with.

I quickly retract my hands from the table and move my line of sight to my left, in there is a glass window, biggest I've ever seen (so up close), that seems to occupy the whole edifice of what should be a wall — not surprising given the height of this building. At each corner of the glass wall is a small black porcelain vase in the shape of a Japanese rice bowl with white and gold spirals running over it. A single yellow-red tulip stands dauntingly atop each vase; it emboldens the corners with an awe gripping ambience.

A shelf of books mounts itself equally in front of me (behind said man) like a shield guarding the wall, and to the middle of the room — to my right — were black sofas, place both east and west from my vantage point, and a small glass table in the middle.

Again I let my weight sink deeper into the leather chair, and it squeaks. The dragging sounds are very pronounced when I adjust, and due to my inactivity(mostly boredom), I draw the sounds into a rhythm of a song by moving my shoulders in ways the sound matches that of my head.

The man seating opposite me, had his head glued unto a very thin bundle of paper he occasionally flips. He properly ignores me. 

I pour out a loud sigh that speaks of my impatience, he flicks his eyes at me, raises a brow, and returns them to the papers without doing anything to alleviate my current state. It's like his eyes were saying "what more do you want from me?" in a condescending but mature way.

Watching him study the sheets of stapled papers, and the frequent "hmm" and furrowing brows he expels, also has me on edge.

"The chances of me getting this: a solid twenty-five percent. Chances that I'd drop dead right now and here if I do not get this: a thousand percent..." My heart rages, and so is my chest drumming my steady demise on.

Giving him a handjob was my backup, it's about time I get to it— his voice immediately breaks me out of my reverie as he ushers his verdict.

"I'm sorry Miss Forest," He drops the clipped papers, adjusts properly into his seat, and comfortably speaks. "These were really good, but having us publish an article — writing — like this just isn't enough."