Duality;Solaris Vol. 1

Chapter 6-3: Square One

"Ok. So, an 'Amazonian' can be tall and built, but doesn't necessarily have to be from the Amazon. Yet, if they are, that doesn't make them any different from the former—"

A conclusion—after much deliberation—rests upon the ears of both fools inside. As Mr. Bordeaux continues, "Do we have that correct," a nod of acceptance from John soothes the paramount importance such a inquiry had provided them. Nevertheless, this conclusion lead into another question spurring from Mr. Bordeaux's mustached mouth. "Then, how does that 'spiral-scarred hand' kid you mentioned come into this?"

"If I knew that," John flubs, "I wouldn't still be thinrking that now." It had been well over 12-hours since it had happened. Still, the name to that specific type of spiral escapes him. It would be so much easier if it could be explained to others— to get someone other than his lapsing mind to think on it. But, how could he describe it as anything more than a scar? This conundrum being as aggravating as it is unimportant to what John should be focusing on. A thing his boss's boss had been prepping him for in these past draining months.

"Nephew, I think you need yourself some coffee." Sincerity decorates the tone of those words as they calmly pass from Mr. Bordeaux's voice-box and into John's ears. A light smile emerges on an already delighted Bordeaux's face, yet it is now attached to a string. That string being his pen-less hand shooing John away for both their days to continue into a lax mundanity. "Yeah—", John chuckles, "I'm pretty sure Ms. Washington said something similar."

"I bet she did. She is a smart cookie, y'know? Not a picayune bone in her body." The words of praise fill the air as Mr. Bordeaux's attention returns to his unfortunate stack of contractual, and legal, papers that clutter his desk. While John didn't wholly agree, it seemed well enough of a note to leave on— especially, without getting any consequences to his latenesses.

John gives a reciprocal wave back and heads for the door. As he opens the door to leave, Mr. Bordeaux couldn't help himself to let out one last verbal tidbit. A thing much worse than any simple slap on the wrist. "And, by the way, Mr. Fujiwara wants you to wear the company's red tie for the next shareholder's meeting in October. The head honcho didn't like how the blue one turned out." An additional stressor.

Like water to a grease fire, a new box to the checklist only exasperates the underlining cracks in John's outer, social shell. "Y—yeah. Gotcha," these hesitant words slipping past the thin veil of pleasantries struggling to keep his face appropriate for work. A clear strain in his social presentation once more, this is the face that all would see as he exits the boss's 'private' office. All eyes trained on him as he reenters the audience of cubicles. It was time to move on.

Coffee. The first thing on his checklist to avoiding his checklist.

He walks past those in cubicles and others too busy to notice his existence. There, at the table in the back of the vomit colored office space, sits a plastic table that held the coffee brewer. John grabs a close-by complimentary paper cup from the stack and pours himself a cup.

Bitter and cold. The usual taste, but it works.

My Office. The last bastion to hide away before the 'Fujiwara' checklist came calling before too long.

Coffee in hand, John silently makes his way to his office. Ignoring the fresher eyes still locked onto him with work questions in mind. Dodging out of the way of the more veteran ones too gung-ho for consideration of others walking opposite of themselves. He gets to the door to his office, his door. And, it is already wide open.

Did I forget to close it before or—

His question answered before it had time to finish. It wasn't from his apparent exhaustion—nor his stressed out mind—but something a bit more paradoxically typical.