coup de foudre | jercy

two: prying eyes

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we need to replace some of the ceiling fans. they spin with a dangerously volatile quality overhead, having dizzied themselves from years of going round without ever being oiled or serviced. if i glance upward, i can see one wobbling at its base, visuals mirroring the uneven whirring sound it's recently acquired. like a dancer who's tired of her pirouettes, legs about to buckle. i'm not the only one who notices it; there's other co-workers, some clients, visitors.

silena agrees. being a facilities manager, her primary concern is the price—there's a lot of fans and a lot of them are slowly rusting out. places where customers or visitors come in are a priority, we both agree. it's lunchtime and she's decided to talk about it with me now, but i don't mind. i'm not hungry, and it's nice being able to speak openly across tables while the rest of the floor is empty.

our conversation distracts itself after a while, once the critical things are sorted, as often happens with impromptu discussions. she talks a bit about bakeries and the mall nearby, trash talks a co-worker in the nicest way i've ever heard. i mainly just listen, not because she's the type to talk a lot but because i have nothing to say.

as she trails off, i hear the overlap of shoes dragging themselves past us and glance to the side. people are getting back to work, albeit hesitantly. the office begins to somewhat fill itself with the few people here today, the way raindrops sparsely sprinkle the inside of a glass.

silena watches them file in with me. "maintenance feels like crap sometimes," she says. she tips her head back on her chair, staring at the fans with a half-hearted gaze. the one right above us slows down for a moment, lets out a disjointed squeak, then resumes its sisyphean route. "i hope to god these fans don't fall on someone."

the rest of the day wanders past the walls of my memory. i had one more meeting next; some sort of customer, some sort of request, but i can't recall what that some was. i work a desk-job, but i've been speeding on a highway since morning—the way you know where you're going and how you got there, but when you try to conjure an image of the memory, all the cars' headlights are blurred and warping. you don't actually read the road signs as much as you know which one to turn at.

well, it's not just today: my entire week's been going with that same motif. it feels vaguely blurry. the only vivid memory i have is monday night—meeting that barista, percy, in the café.

there's no reason for me to remember that night in particular. yet still, perhaps i remember too much. from the taste of the coffee to each and every pin on percy's jacket. the whirring of the heater, the warmth of that jacket against the crawling cold. the colour of his eyes stick with me the most—that ineffable, startling green. i don't think there's a shade of paint in the world that could do it justice.

as i drive home, he comes and goes from my mind, his name flitting through with the speed of a butterfly's wings. this isn't the first time i've been unable to stop thinking about something, but it's never been like this. never about a stranger.

of course, though, the more i try not thinking about it, the more details my brain pulls out for me. the single bead on his necklace—did he paint that, or was it someone else? or maybe it was store-bought, like that, though it feels unlikely. i should stop thinking about him.

i can turn on some music, i suppose. there's not much you can think about when there's sound to drown anything before it surfaces. that might be one of the reasons i love metal. my mind pictures his fingers wrapped around a styrofoam cup as he pushes my coffee towards me. i remember that he didn't ask the other woman for her name. just me. it gives me a strange, unwarranted sense of satisfaction. as if i like being watched. (i don't.)