Knots In Our Heartstrings [Dramione]

Train Strikes

Draco sat at his desk, his middle finger rhythmically peeling up and smoothing down the cuticle on his thumb. He was sloppy with the motion, catching his knuckle in the drawback, letting the tiny sliver of a wound tingle in the air for a moment too long, feel the burn like sour lemons seeping into a papercut, before fumbling to soothe the ragged skin back down. All morning he did that. Waiting for his first client of the day to arrive.

The clock ticked on. And on. And on.

He watched the glass door.

He watched the clock.

He watched the glass door.

He watched the clock.

A few people walked by, the usual types that he sees at the office. Men in suits. The ones that aren't in suits look tired and haggard. Couples walking stoically beside each other. The occasional mother with a child cemented to their body. They were always quiet. Eerily so. If he didn't so fervently watch through the glass walls of his office, view obstructed only by the thin slats of the white blinds he seldom drew closed, he'd surely miss every passerby. But he never did. He saw everyone that passed the narrow corridors outside his glass walls.

They were his own private fish tank of despair to gawp at.

Every passerby was someone new to dissect for that brief moment that they occupied his fish tank.

His coworkers, on occasion, would acknowledge his presence behind the glass. A brief glance and a tightlipped smile. A wave, perhaps. They looked through the glass walls and saw the man behind the desk. He was their fish tank. Even if it was just for some brief moments.

His finger slipped again, digging his nail just deep enough into the flesh of his thumb to send the tiniest amount of blood pooling into the crevices. He cursed quietly, inspecting the damage done just briefly before sticking his thumb into his mouth and pressing the fresh wound into his lower lip. He'd have to find a plaster for it later, perhaps buy some from the pharmacy around the corner on his lunch break. It would heal in a few days. If he managed to leave it alone.

The small stream of people passing by his window slowed as the hour drew nearer, until eventually, the corridor before him drew to a complete silence. All that was before him were the barren grey walls of the other side of the corridor, not a soul to occupy them.

His computer screen sprung to life with a pop-up notification. The hour was here. His client was late. Not an unheard-of phenomenon, but it certainly was not what he was expecting this morning.

Immediately, he went to reach for the phone. Maybe his client was still making their way through the building. If he called Diane down at reception, she'd surely let him know that they were already on their way. But if they were on their way, that would mean they'd be two, maybe three minutes at most from stepping into his window of the corridor. Perhaps by the time he'd dialled the number for reception, listened to the ringing of the phone and reached Diane, they'd already be stepping through the door.

Five minutes, he settled on. Five minutes he'd wait before calling Diane. That seemed a more appropriate length of time to start fretting over a late client.

If they still weren't walking past his window in five minutes' time he'd call her. Maybe they were late and called reception. Maybe the message just hadn't been passed on. Diane was normally very vigilant at her job, she'd never been late to pass on important information before, but there was always a first time for everything. Maybe there was a message waiting in the answering machine that she hadn't reached yet. There was a multitude of reasons and justifications as to why someone could be late. His worries were likely fruitless.