Double Agent

○ twenty two ○

"You're breathing too loud, it's messing up my mojo," I complain, sinking back into my seat with an exasperated sigh.

"Fuck do you mean I'm breathing too loud? Your fucking annoying ass can't stop moving around in that creaky chair, and I'm being too loud?"

"Well look at that, the problem would've been solved if you'd just given me the good chair in the first place."

"It's my bloody office."

"Sometimes, some things in life are better than your chairs, like my peace of mind."

He ignores me.

We sit in silence for a while.

"Ezra."

His eyes don't move from the screen.

"Ez."

Nothing.

"Ezzie boy."

"Ezzer the goat."

"Ezler the creator."

I poke his cheek.

He loses his shit. He lunges at me, grabbing me off of my chair and throwing me over his shoulder, before marching out of the room and putting me down in the hallway, slamming the door and locking me out.

"You can't lock me out here." I grunt, pounding at the door, "I'm just an innocent helpless little girl."

"You're not innocent, you're not helpless, and you stole my keys. Fuckin unlock the door and come in yourself."

I do just that, marching in and taking a seat in the bad chair, crossing my arms.

"Fucking annoying," he mutters.

"I'm going out to watch TV, you can sit here and decipher this all by yourself," I move to get up.

He grabs my belt loop, dragging me back a little too hard down onto his lap.

"Like hell you are," he breathes into my ear.

I don't dare move. I just keep my eyes peeled on the numbers on screen and I beg myself to pay attention even though my senses are overwhelmed with him.

After some point, the letters start to swirl. They seem to become smaller and bigger and they make my eyes hurt. The longer I stare, the uglier they look. Something about them looks funny. I cock my head to the side, watching the numbers.

"Does that 2 look funny to you?"

"Hm?" he mumbles.

"The two, it's smaller than the rest isn't it?"

He sits up straighter.

I shoot off of his lap, heading towards the broom in the corner. Using its length, I hold it up so it lies horizontally over the big letters and I hold it there.

"Write down the smaller letters separately."

Ezra writes them down into his tablet, copying it and pasting it on a new window on the screen.

"It's a year, innit?" I copy his British accent.

"It's this year. Why would it be this year? Didn't your father die in 2014?"

"He did, but what if he wrote it to be found in 2022?"

"Why would he write it for 2022 if he knew he'd still be alive?"

"What if he wrote it in case he didn't make it? People never make it out of the mafia."

"We're assuming a lot here. He could have written it for his own benefit."