Silver / clay

⊱ 19 ⊰

Caleb ran his blood-shot eyes once more over the line item for capital expenditures. It was a sharp rise over the previous financial year, and was putting strain on cash flow. But you had to spend money to make money. Right?

The fact he even used that phrase suggested he didn't really know what he was doing. There was a lot to take in at once and, while they were taught to be methodical, he was beginning to feel he was in over his head.

He barely understood what each line truly represented, but knew just enough about how to manipulate the numbers next to those words to do his job. It was surface level acumen, giving him the ability to tick off the basics without delving into how valid the numbers themselves might be.

But that wasn't his role, anyway, not yet, not on this job. Without experience, he was limited to ticking off standards compliance and whatever else couldn't get him into too much trouble.

He wondered if any of his fellow hires had juicier roles already, and blinked out into the gloom of an unlit office. He'd got into the habit of commandeering the conference room after hours. It provided a space for quiet concentration, a treat he savoured to partially equalise his own abilities with the others.

As he cracked his neck and lifted himself from the seat, welcoming that familiar friend along his lower back, numbed at the value his servitude provided, he heard the light patter of feet. Xifeng stopped at the doorway, handbag dripping from white knuckles, jacket caught in her arms. She revealed the slightest hint of surprise, quickly corralled by a sharp mind. "How long have you been here?" she said, looking out at the lifeless office.

"Once the windows go dark, time loses its meaning," said Caleb.

"Still on McCrae?" she said, slipping the jacket onto her shoulders.

"Still nosy?" said Caleb.

"Found anything damaging?"

"I'm a glorified computer," said Caleb. And not a very good one, he thought. "I just need to double check some of my figures."

"You don't if you get it right first time," said Xifeng.

"We can't all have your gifts," said Caleb.

"No."

"But Damien will be going over it when he comes in tomor--" Caleb noticed the time. "Later this morning." His eyelids grew suddenly heavy. But it felt good to strain under their weight, as if he was fighting directly for Amala with every blink.

"Remember, he's got a secret project coming up," said Xifeng. "He wants one of us to help, but only one. Any mistakes and it's down the pecking order. Way, way down...no pressure. Goodnight!"

She took off. Caleb made out the tight-lipped smile, or what amounted to one, through the glass wall, until it faded, along with her movement. She stopped completely, peering down at her feet, as if remembering her own footsteps. The interlude was eventually interrupted by a reluctant decision. She turned and retreated the way she came, peeling away her jacket on the way back and draping it haphazardly onto the backrest of her seat. The handbag landed heavily, echoing in the quiet hum, reverberated by her whole body flopping into the chair. She stared his way and then, with a sigh, swung around, resuming her own work.

Caleb followed her lead, returning to the detailed balance sheet, confident he could outwork her, outwork anyone if he had to. It was the one advantage he had, that inner drive, the desire to please Amala. He smiled at the idea, stretching his legs, taking a brief wander around the conference room. All his work remained on the far side, giving the long table a lopsided tension, without balance.

"This is how it should be," he said, to himself, aware of his denuded immediate surroundings, in stark contrast to the laptop and papers where his work sat.

It felt wrong to accept any gains; not simply material, but personal, a type of inflated goodwill. Shouldn't it instead be listed under equity, granted in some fashion to its rightful owner?

The situation was even trickier, here, since this was about self-worth, which would always rise in proportion to how much he sacrificed for Amala, kept in check necessarily by the brute fact he was gaining without her benefit, thrusting him into guilt, where he would spend his conscious thoughts chastising himself. But wasn't that still making it about himself? Shouldn't he be vesting his personality of anything related to the ego?

Beyond this room, the blue light from a screen lit the silhouette of Xifeng, chained to her desk by his presence. She was clearly of the mindset that the ends justified the means, that whatever helped her succeed was fair game. If this slight boost to his confidence was temporarily withheld from Amala, then, he could ultimately create a better base from which to gain more security for her, to begin to provide what she deserved, just like his earlier move into the apartment. You had to spend money to make money. Right?