Silver / clay

⊱ 15 ⊰

Caleb rubbed his blood-shot eyes. He thought he heard the phone ring, but there wasn't one on his worn desk.

"Going well?"

Caleb raised his numb fingers from the keyboard and smiled up at the office manager. "Mm-hm," he said, with a nod.

She waited, expectant. The question wasn't a casual social enquiry, inviting a suitably generic response, like most of his new job's interactions with colleagues. Wrapped up in those two words was the demand of a status update, the justification of his work ethic and his role at the company more broadly, with a slight chastisement for not proactively liberating the information in the time frames she preferred. The only correct answer was yes, with corroborating evidence.

"Oh," said Caleb, sorting through his piles. "I'm about half way through the invoices for last week. I should have the rest done by the end of the day."

"I see," she said.

Caleb had fallen into this trap a few times already. He realised how much of a slow learner he'd become, stuck in the same role, only now exploring the wider world of communication and personalities.

"I will have it done by close of business," he said.

"That would be wonderful," she said, in a way that bordered mocking, giving herself just enough wiggle room to plausibly deny any accusations from HR.

Caleb picked up the pace, growing the completed pile for his manager to double check, with her red pen at the ready, like a strict school teacher. He got them done, a little after five, creaking his body into an upright position. He'd been hunched over the small scraps of paper, over the monitor, for the full day, and now his back was paying him back for its troubles.

He stretched his head one way, then the other, adding a few circles, but the pain in his shoulders remained unscathed. Even his lower back exhibited distress at the new sedentary life.

His manager had left an hour earlier, telling him to lock the office after himself. The only real difference between this job and his last was the slightly increased hourly rate. Still, that was the whole point.

He left with a self-satisfied sigh, an emotion that lasted the long train journey to his front door. The studio apartment was tiny, run-down, and in a way it felt like he was simply repeating a cycle of his past: the small room, the tiring job, but this place was far cheaper, stuck in a scummier part of the city, and besides, he had another trick up his sleeve.

He slumped into bed and set the alarm. He'd barely closed his eyes when it went off. One and a half hours sleep was as much as he could afford.

Amala's smile hit his consciousness and a surge of energy followed, lifting him from the bed and into a quick change of clothes. He stuck a lozenge in his mouth as he slipped on the fresh shirt.

"Hi, contact name," he said, lowering his voice for the last two words. "This is Caleb from PoSoftware...and one and...I hope your day is going well. I hope your day is-- I hope your day--"

He cleared his throat, running through the routine a few more times, before stuffing his mouth with some left-over boiled rice.

The satisfaction of utilising the breadth of his usefulness invigorated his soul. He left the apartment with a grin of fulfilment.