Observation - Cillian Murphy

The Silhouette

It was exactly the next morning when my body broke down. Four AM. My throat was thirsty.

After chugging down a glass of crystal iced water, I went to sleep again.

Tossing back and forth and arguing within my mind whether to hug the pillow or not, I lay flat on my back, carefully watching the ceiling as the chalky lights peeked through the curtains. ʼInsufferableʼ, I'd thought.

My phone buzzed. Four Thirty AM. I picked it up from the bedstand and swiped to see the message—"Your phone percentage is low. Consider charging it."

I groaned, flopping back with my head on the pillow. Listening to a delicate ruffling sound following my movements, I thought about sleep and how much I dreamed of it.

It took a moment for my body to adjust back from the phone screen. I figured if I had gotten something to eat, it would help me doze off quicker.

Four Fifty-Five AM. I choked on cereal flakes while glueing my eyes on my most recent read. Lights shimmered back and forth. And no matter how hard I tried, the sleep never enveloped me.

Finally, I scrolled through my phone, eventually forgetting the evil ability of time to fly by.

At ten, I came down through the modern elevator to get breakfast.

Once I entered the place, the mint smell of waffles accompanied by eggs overwhelmed my senses. I glanced back at my legs, realising I should have worn something rather than rose-colored flip-flops.

The room was light and welcomed a lot of air. Creme chairs and transparent tables stood at both sides of the chamber, next to the tall windows. Sunlight fell on both plants and tables in the middle of the room, yellowing them instantly. Gray heated pans fell on the satin cover of the same table. Milky marble tiles covered the entire area, bringing a fresh feel of beauty.

The enormous room expanded further as I walked through, finally noticing twisting stairs at the end of it. Various modern paintings fell atop the snowy panels, adorning them and completing the creme wall-trim moldings.

Picking up the plate, I reached for some sausages, rice and an omelette from the buffet. Later, I'd gotten a slice of strawberry cake with waffles and honey. A tiny glimpse of carrot cake closed off my breakfast. It tasted surprisingly appetising and felt special.

After stuffing my stomach with solid food to handle starvation for the coming day, I wandered across the long hallways with a raven-swirled carpet written everywhere on the ground.

The transparent number plates of the suites gleamed as brightly as they did when I first entered this hotel.

Stopping to gape at a bookshelf in front of me, I noticed a sign above it.

˜

"FREE BOOKS! PS: please bring them back on this shelf or trade them with another book!"

˜

I skimmed through the shelves, trying to find something I'd like to know about.

The sole color among the bland books seemed to capture my attention. I reached for it, finding it rather dusty to pull away from the old bookshelf.

'Slow days, Fast company', said on the pink cover. I recognised the writer immediately. Eve Babitz is the most angelic and poetic writer for me.

Quickly, I brought the book closer to my bleached tank top and ran towards the elevator.

Flopping back on the couch, I opened the first page of the kaleidoscopic book, smiling as I read the first line.

The evening came sooner than I thought. By Five PM, I was almost done with the read and got bored as I finished it.

For an hour or two, I lay down on my stomach, facing the window. My cheek must've felt awful, but I didn't care as I lightly played with strands of my hair.

Perhaps, I needed a slight push, so I stood up and brought up my suitcase for something more 'elegant'.

In the evening, I flew to the bar in my raven dress. It elongated in the middle, bringing a unique illusion of my body. Four golden buttons followed after each other vertically as they fell down my stomach and ended just before reaching my pelvis.

High-knee boots on my legs clacked against the checkered floor as I entered the chamber.

Somehow, the lights dimmed the closer you got to the bar, which stood in the middle of the room. The word 'opulence' came to mind when you entered this place. Perhaps, it was the chairs which illuminated gold or the mirror that fell on the wall right behind the bartender.

"One Martini, please." I voiced after sitting down in front of the bar.

A young man with a pleasant smile nodded at me, gradually picking up a glass from a clear shelf behind him. I scanned him as he passed me the drink. Exchanging glances around, I brought up my cigarette from my black purse.

"Excuse me," I interrupted, "Can I smoke here?"

"Oh yes, Madam." The bartender replied.

Instantly, I brought the paper-like tube to my soft lips. Picking up a shiny metal box, I lit the cigarette, observing the short puffs escaping into the air.

'I broke my non-smoking streak', I'd thought while slowly sitting my thin fingers through the cigarette.

The smoke found its way into the air, just like my sudden desire to return to my suite. I jumped from my chair and headed back to the hallway.

Not so long after, I reached for the hotel card to unlock my door. Suddenly, a prominent silhouette of a man I'd seen before passed through my peripheral vision.

I nodded my head in disbelief. How could he be in Amsterdam? Was he here on a coincidence or business after all?