Author's Note: Very first story on this site, no need to be gentle. This is a drabble series in the diary/journal format, and I told myself countless times not to write first-person-POV; I hate it. I'm more of a third-person-limited-POV type, but oh well. This story is a very slowburn JELSA and I understand that this isn't everybody's cup of tea; and if I'm honest, the age gap is scary, but you kinda have to be, I dunno, demented to enjoy it like I do. Anyway, hope you enjoy this story as much as I love writing it. I will update a cover art soon, too.
This story is Rated-M for mature audiences. Just because it's a little mellow right now doesn't mean it won't get raunchy later on.
Summary: What do you get when you add a socially awkward asexual girl from beauty, a good-looking, pranky jerk of an Assistant Manager, a cute and nerdy amputee from electronics, a lovable realist with a giant dog named Sven, an adorkable, hopeless romantic of a little sister, a grumpy yet kindhearted blonde woman from hardware good, a feisty redhead from toys, a moody Englishman of a boss, and every walks of life in the largest department store in Storyville, IL? You get FARAWAY & CO.
Faraway & Co.
Elsa
Dear Kit,
You know I must always keep routine, or as close to routine as possible. I like my days to be uneventful and a bit mundane, yet still have a bit of spice to an already mild life. However, nothing had prepared me for the entire spice cabinet that was my new manager to pour over my almost perfect dish that is my life into chaotic disaster.
It was a chilly morning in the four walls that was my room. The teal blue, satin-finished, walls looking much darker than they originally are, like an ocean of ink reflecting moonlight on the crests of its waves. I knew what was coming if I had just woken up minutes earlier than I typically did every morning. The tick tick tick of the seconds hand rang loudly in its rhythmics lull in the already silent room; as I counted the seconds, it happened. The beeping of the alarm clock on my desk notified me that it was time to get up. Reluctantly, I sat up, removed the warm sheets from my body feeling the pricks of gooseflesh on my skin from the cold room, and proceeded to shut the alarm off.
Now, I know what you're thinking, Kit: who the hell still has alarm clocks nowadays?
Well, it's old fashion. I know my phone has its own alarm to wake me every morning, but when something was relatively cheap and doesn't eat up my phone's battery, then you know it's a good investment. Even better is the motivation to get out of bed to shut the annoying contraption up rather than continuing to snuggle within the relative safety of the warm sheets of my bed. We all have to get up sometime, right?
Glancing at the time the clock had, it was 5:30 A.M; work wasn't for another four hours. So turning the light on from my desk, I dug through the dresser drawer by the wall opposite my bed and pulled out my workout clothes. I dressed, made the bed, grabbed my old iPod with the earbuds already attached to the jack as routine, and headed for the door of the apartment. Locking the door, I placed the key under the potted plant until I came back. I know, I know, it sounds stupid, but my apartment had never been broken into. I mean, what the heck were potential thieves going to steal? My comfy sofa with the afghan draped on the backrest, or the beat-up coffee table? How about the second-hand furniture in my room, or Zel's paintings that hung about the apartment, decorating the drab, old-painted white walls (more like yellowing walls if you asked me)? I basically have nothing to offer for prospective robbers to steal.
I digress.
My workout was nothing new, but a bit of cardio from running a few blocks around for the next hour or so; then I showered when I came home. After showering and changing, breakfast was its usual bowl of oatmeal, some cantaloupe melon, and a cup of green tea with no sugar. No breakfast of champions, but it fed me as always, and was kind to my wallet. Think maybe I should add a bit of variety to my meals, Kit?
Checking the glowing green numbers on the kitchen oven, it read 7:00 A.M.; I had to be at work around ten—which I had ample time before the 89 bus to Arendelle Boulevard were to arrive at exactly eight o'clock in the morning, and the bus stop was a five minute walk so I had good timing.
As I do every week or two, I get a pitcher of water and pour some to the seven plants I own. I tuned to the music that they love from the iPod (relaxing acoustic guitar music) after connecting the speaker in the jack,; studies say that plants enjoy music or you talking to them as it helps them grow, as well as fool burglars into thinking you're home, therefore I do it. Grabbing the book I had been reading the last two days from the coffee table, I gathered my belongings into the handmade, blue, crochet bag I made last year before my moving out of my parents' house, and walked out the apartment. Rather than placing the key under the pot, this time I dumped it in the small pocket on the inside of the bag.
After walking the five minutes to the bus stop, I sat on the wooden-seat of the bench, noticing the new advertisement that wasn't there yesterday morning. It was for MAMA ODIE'S CAJUN CUISINE. I'd been there once; the gumbo was absolutely delicious, and the owner herself was gracious, sharing that warm and inviting southern hospitality that many had heard about here in the Midwest. Mama Odie's was giving me an idea for my hour lunchtime with Mer—you know, since we're barely scheduled the same lunch hour.
It was a little more than ten minutes into my reading of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury that it was when he appeared. At first I paid no mind, after all, he was but a stranger that waited for the same bus I and a few others—which unfortunately, today I was alone. From the habitual first glance that all humans have when a stranger approaches, I was able to fully register how he looked before shifting my eyes back to my book. Dressed in the typical attire of a white-collared worker with a white, long-sleeved, button-up collared shirt that was form-fitted, skinny, navy blue chinos, a brown belt, brown dress shoes, and the navy blue blazer he held nonchalantly in his hand as it dangled behind his back, I must've guessed he worked at a law firm or something. The cologne he wore was distinctively Light Blue. Reminded me of another guy that once wore that same fragrance. Now, Kit, I'll admit that the young man was physically handsome, with short, messy, brown hair, skin fair with the cold bringing out a touch of color on his cheeks and ears, dark blue eyes that were focused on his phone, and a delicate nose. He was a pretty boy.
"Aren't you cold?" I remembered him asking me, not taking his eyes away from the screen before him.
The young man referred to my attire of a short, navy blue, short-sleeved, dress with black stockings, and black ankle boots (you know, that old thing since most of my money goes to important things like rent and food). My tan cardigan obviously resting on my lap along with the crochet bag. I understood what he meant. Here we were on a mid-October morning with the temperature well into the fifties, and upon first instinct would be to cover once self in the warmth of a jacket; but Kit, I was fine.
"It's only fifty-five degrees," I laconically answered. I wasn't much of a talker anyhow, so short answers to state my point was how I pretty much survived in this world.
"Uh-huh. Your skin's saying something different if the goosebumps aren't an indication of you being cold."
I was a bit peeved at how blasé he was with a stranger. Typically, one would be polite to another, especially with concerns over the well-being of someone, but this young man was rather…rude? It's like he was talking to someone he knew for ages. I hate to admit that his modulated voice, being clear and yet a tad husky, was rather pleasant to the ear.
"My workplace is worse," I had closed my book then after dog-earing the corner of the page I left off, not in the mood to resume my adventures of the Compson family.
"Huh, is it now?" His eyes finally away from the screen and bored onto me. He let his eyes take a good look at me from head to toe, making me feel a tad self-conscious when he playfully smirked; to be honest, I was a little creeped out regardless of how handsome the face of this jerk was. Yes, a jerk! "Can I ask where you work?"
"You can, but I'm not obligated to answer you, you jerk. Now, if you'll excuse me, my bus is here. I hope we won't meet again."
Thank the universe that the bus had arrived a bit earlier than usual. Once the hiss of the brakes had the vehicle stop by the sidewalk, I stood from my place on the bench as I waited for the doors to open. But it was when he spoke that it dawned on me who this jerk really was.
"Actually, we'll be seeing each other quite a lot, Miss Snow," the man continued, his smile looking somewhat sinister than earlier; "The name's Jack Overland, the new Assistant Manager at FARAWAY & CO."
If the Earth was a land of quicksand, I wished at that time that it would swallow me whole into its sandy abyss.
Kit, I think I fucked up big time. Pray that I don't lose my job over this little encounter. I will let you know what happens later today when I get out.
—Elsa