Blueprint

Part 21 - Badly

It was fitting — the entire situation fits the gradually moving trepidation that preceded it. What was...unusual was the ease and indifference with which I moved, and the unperturbed mannerism that overtook my body. The unsympathetic way I maneuvered the situation with Harry was silently astonishing, as both Harry and I didn't engage in any conversation pertaining to our current feelings at this time. He was someone of action, his mind automatically trained to respond with immediate proactive solutions nearly instantaneously with his emotions. I've only seen Harry express one of the standard emotions: anger. After rearranging all the glass in his office into shattered pieces on several surfaces, he was extremely quiet and composed, unfazed by the whole situation like it never happened. His breath was so slow and tranquil, I would've thought he was beginning to fall asleep. To Axel, he very coolly said, "Everyone's on thin fuckin' ice. Handle it."

We're in the large basement parking garage in his building. I stand composedly behind the group of security Harry is ordering to specific tasks. A line of five men with forgettably rugged, iron appearances stood before him. They all wore the same black suit, and the same expression of emotional vacancy. The strap of my bag hung by my side, brushing against the fabric of my grey, fitted pants. Considering the weight of the files and my laptop, my shoulder began to grow tired and the weight just seemed to keep growing heavier and heavier. Adjusting the strap and lifting it slightly, I stand up straighter and grimace with annoyance. Tonight, I was going to be with Harry; somehow, I think things worked in his favor even when they didn't.

I press my lips together, the very little of my chapstick that was left on my skin causing them to glide. Spreading the moisture, I watch quietly as Harry continues to elaborate and what needed to be done. Hearing him talk now versus from when I first met him truly mind boggles me, and yet it doesn't. The people I've been observing have many faces, and Harry is no different. When he finally turns around, his eyes meet mine. His face doesn't change, the same stoic expression fitted into his handsome face almost permanently. Every move he made, I saw and I saw it slowly just as he walked by me. I turn to follow him, complying with my conscience to remain silent until we were out of the view of his security team. Behind me, they all walked to their cars, the sound of the engines starting and roaring into combustion moments later.

The building looks the same, familiar. I'm suddenly flooded with memories of my routine walk from the garage to his penthouse floor. Down the hallways, our footsteps echo. His pointed, black dress shoes and my nude-colored heels created unsynced rhythms across the beige, glossed stone floors. I looked ahead and try to keep my distance from him, feeling concerned for how close he was even at a few steps away. My face sporting a look of stern displeasure, I'm led to the elevator which we share for several seconds. He pays very little attention to me, his eyes focusing on the sliding doors, eyebrows lowered, lips closed. It seemed like neither of us had any intention to speak, but it was silently clear for Harry and I, that we were going to be ripping into each other in a way less passionate, and sexy, but more aggressive.

Inside his penthouse, however, the tension only rose as we neared the impending inevitability of a conversation. The door shuts behind me and I stand still, watching him stroll towards the opposite direction. He doesn't deviate from heading straight to the kitchen, the loose, navy short-sleeve button up he wore moves gracefully at his arms, and slightly around his torso. From a distance, I hear the sound of running water, the faucet turning on moments later. I take a few steps towards the spacious living space, sitting on the sofa by the white stone fireplace. Instead of sitting back, pretending that I could even begin to relax anymore was futile. I sat up and folded my hands in my lap, quiet and reserved. There was something about the penthouse that seemed new. It must've been the way I was looking at it this time. The tones of grey, white, and glass, stone, marble materials blended into a colorless, lifeless swirl. I grew impatient sitting, up until the faucet suddenly turns off. Remaining seated, I see that he walks back out, his casual movements appearing lazy and disinterested, candid. In one hand, he holds a glass bottle of expensive liquor, and in the other, two glasses tucked between his fingers.