AN: It's back. :) I was going through some of my unfinished works (yeah, they haunt me) and this one called to me. It's all done, so no worries, I won't leave you hanging again. I've had some extra free time lately and the warm reception you all gave the last chapter of Little Talks definitely gave me the nudge I needed to buckle down and write, so thank you for that!
This is a ficlet series with shorter chapters and overall length compared to a standard multi-chapter, and it's exploring one of my favorite topics to think and write about. In a world with no ZA, how do we get these two together? Hope you enjoy!
Monday, January 9
"Good night, Michonne!"
"Good night," she called out to her fellow associate curator as she glanced at the roman numerals on the face of her black leather tank watch. 7:15. Finally.
With the museum closing at 5:00 and the winter sun setting shortly thereafter, the office was usually long deserted by this time of night. She stood from her chair then walked over to the entrance of her office, poking her head out to make sure the hallway was clear before closing the door and returning to her desk.
She leaned down to pull out the grey canvas weekend bag stowed under her desk, then placed it on top while she kicked off her black leather heels, sighing in relief as she pointed and flexed the toes of her now freed stocking clad feet. She reached under her skirt to dig the equally restricting elastic band of her black pantyhose out of her waist, lifting her bottom from the chair as she slid them down and off of her legs before tossing them on her desk. She stood and undid the tiny button on the side of her merlot colored pleated leather skirt and stepped out of it, folding it neatly and setting it aside before crossing her arms in front of her and grabbing the hem of her tight black turtleneck to lift it over her head.
She folded it just as neatly and set it on top of her skirt then unzipped her bag and pulled out the well worn pair of jeans and navy blue Emory hoodie she had packed. Her artist friends had their work clothes, old blue jeans washed so many times over that they were just a few shades away from being white, making them look like a canvas for the years of paint splatter that had accumulated on them, paired with oversized tees and button downs that looked like Jackson Pollock pieces in their own right, as well.
She threw on her own version of work clothes, a variation on the same outfit she'd been wearing since her undergraduate art history major days which was her go to for long nights and weekends spent building and staging exhibits. She slipped her bare feet into an old pair of grey Nikes she kept under her desk and fashioned her locs into a bun high stop her head. She then snagged her iPhone from the desk, popped her earbuds in, scrolled to find the playlist she had pieced together during the long hours she'd already spent on this project, pressed play, and stashed the phone in her front hoodie packet. With her hands free, she grabbed her ID badge and slipped it into her back pocket, then picked up the notebook, pencil, and tape measurer sitting on her desk and took off for the museum floor. Finally.
"You've got five levels," the security guard explained as he motioned to the exposed walkways that lined the atrium. "An entire walk-through takes around an hour. I'd like three a night, but I'll settle for at least one."
Rick nodded, his eyes lifting upward to scan the expansive space before being brought down to the bank of monitors mounted behind the front desk by the motioning from the older gentleman's hand.
"We've got thirteen monitors here."
Rick scanned the black and white images that looked like they were on pause given the current inactivity in the museum.
"One for each entrance and two for each floor, north and south wing views. And this one…" he said as he flipped the switch on the one blank monitor causing a color picture to develop on the screen, "gets cable," he announced proudly. "I told you it's not a bad gig, the hardest part is staying awake."
"Right," Rick nodded.
"If you get hungry, there's two pizza places that deliver late around here. You got Vespucci's," he said pointing the to east, "or Vinny's," he said pointing to the south. "They're both absolutely terrible, but Vinny's is less so. Now Vinny's does close a little earlier, but I'd rather have a cold slice than a bad one, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah," Rick nodded, finding the man's fast paced speech dizzying. Not to mention the fact that he could barely tell the difference between Pizza Hut and Papa John's, always having to ask his son to remind him which one had the good breadsticks and garlic sauce he liked much to his annoyance.
"Former NYPD," the security guard explained, apparently noticing his lost look. "I take my pizza seriously."
"Gotcha," Rick said, finally able to identify his gruff accent beyond just not from around here. "Well, I brought my food with me anyway," he said, raising the lunch cooler that was still in his hand.
"Ah, well, you got a fridge, a locker for your things, and a cot in there if you need to grab some shut eye," he said pointing the the door on the wall behind the desk. "You got any questions?"
"No, I think that's it."
"Great. Here's a master key card," he said passing it off to his reliever. "Gets you anywhere you need to go. Just don't let anyone steal anything, and if you have an emergency, you can always call 911," he cracked.
"Will do," Rick chuckled.
"Have a good one," he said with a wave as he slipped his jacket on and left for the door.
"You, too."
Rick walked out from behind the desk to lock up behind him, but older man stopped him, holding up his white key card to explain that there were no physical locks to mind. He dipped his head self-consciously, then stopped there in the middle of the lobby and watched him exit through the glass doors and disappear down the walkway.
He placed a hand on his hip and looked around him. It was silent except for a constant, low mechanical hum coming from what he figured was a water fountain or soda machine somewhere off the lobby, only he couldn't quite tell which since the periphery of the room was obscured by darkness; the only light came from the soft glow of the streetlights on Peachtree Street and the desk lamp at the security station. He gazed up at the glass ceiling of the atrium, seeing only the black night sky, its stars washed out by the city's light pollution.
He turned to head back to the desk, recoiling upon hearing the sound of his boots hitting the tile and echoing loudly throughout the lobby. He had no sleeping children the next room over to be concerned about waking like at home, but the noise was still too much, jarring and unsettling in this large empty space. He had seventeen years on the force and a Colt Python on his hip, so it wasn't fear, it was just this feeling of unease, the same one he felt when walking into one of those houses where everything was so pristine that you were afraid to move or sit for fear of ruining something.
He looked down at his watch. 7:30. Eleven-and-a-half more hours to go. With nothing else to do, he sat his lunchbox down on the desk and peeled off the brown suede jacket he was still wearing, then walked down the hallway to start his first sweep of the premises.
See-line woman
She drink coffee
She drink tea
And then go home
See-line woman
Michonne clicked the lock on her tape measurer, leaving it to sit on the floor while she stood from her kneeling position. She pulled one bud from her ear thinking she heard something, an added beat that was out of time with the layered percussion and handclaps backing Nina Simone's voice. She looked down the length of the gallery she was standing in and through the opening that connected with the main corridor, but saw and heard nothing after a moment of watching, so she knelt down again and reached across to scribble the measurement she'd marked in her notebook.
See-line woman
Dressed in green
Wears silk stockings
With golden seams
See-line woman
The errant beat resurfaced, and she simply turned her head to look again, seeing a man double back upon catching sight of her on his way past the gallery. He was dressed in a brown uniform, different from the grey suits their own security guards wore and the head to toe black off duty Atlanta Police Department officers wore when they took extra shifts. She fished her badge out of her back pocket and flashed it at him to which he nodded and gave a small wave back. She nodded in return then went back to work as he moved on.
"Shit," she hissed to herself upon seeing that the distraction had made her lose her place on the floor, causing her to have to remeasure the entire length of the exhibit space again.
She clicked the lock on the tape measurer causing the metal strip to retract into the yellow cartridge with a loud snap, echoing her frustration. She stood and made her way back to the wall, about to start the process again before thinking twice about that security guard and the extra set of hands he could provide. She knew he had all the time in the world and nothing else to do unlike her, so she jogged down the the length of the gallery, hoping to catch him before he disappeared to the next floor. When she reached the main corridor, she saw him stopped in front of a painting by one of her favorite American impressionists, a winter scene executed in grays, blues, and warm browns evocative of the season they were in.
"Excuse me."
He turned, a look of alarm on his face, as if the tables were turned and she had caught him red-handed.
"Would you mind helping me with something?" she asked holding up the tape measurer to give him an idea as to what he may be volunteering for. "It won't take long."
"Sure," he said with a dutiful nod before turning on his heel and walking over to join her.
"I just need to measure this area," she explained as the walked through the gallery, their steps echoing loudly as they passed through, paying no mind to the works of art that lined the walls and sculptures that were displayed in the middle.
It was all so surreal to Rick, having this unrestricted access to a place that some people held with the same reverence others would a church. Neither did it for him, personally, but he could still feel the gravity of the museum, that it was a place that demanded a certain degree of respect which was something the woman he was following seemed to hold for it. Despite her casual attire, she was serious, speaking quietly and using as few words as possible to communicate with him as she showed him the perimeter of the area she had been trying to measure. They got to work, him holding the end of the tape in hand as she pulled the measurer, jotted down numbers, and pointed him in the direction she needed him to go next. Within three minutes they were done with what would have taken her ten.
He walked toward her, not letting go of the tape until he was close enough to be assured it wouldn't snap up and hit her or cause a loud sound. She tilted her chin appreciatively, giving not quite a grin, but some movement of her lips that connoted appreciation.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"Not a problem."
He turned and made his way back down the hall, heading straight to the stairwell that led to the fifth floor to complete his first set of rounds.
After what seemed like an hour straight of flipping through channels, he landed on CNN and decided to stay there for lack of anything better to watch. He had already consumed half of his thermos of coffee and polished off a granola bar leaving himself with just a sandwich and an apple to get him through the next eight-and-a-half hours of his shift. He had been passing his time until his next sweep by staring out the front door, the people watching along Peachtree Street proving to be far more interesting than cable news, but that had come to an end thanks to the late hour, so he found his attention drawn toward monitor ten where the woman he had seen earlier drifted in and out of frame as she moved about the gallery space.
She would stay in frame for long stretches of time, standing as she wrote in the same notebook he had seen her working in earlier, then disappearing for a while before resurfacing in a different area of the room, a definite pattern to her movements. In the times she was gone, he found himself staring blankly at the screen until she returned, then looking away to scan the other monitors, feeling as though he was invading her privacy. This last time, though, she didn't return; instead he watched her exit through the back door wrapped in a dark, puffy jacket with her bags slung over her shoulder on monitor two. He picked up his thermos and took a long pull from it as he glanced at his watch. 10:43. He'd bargained with himself to wait until 11:30 to make his next round, but his knee bobbing restlessly under the desk was likely to give out before then so he put down his coffee and left the the stairwell just off the lobby to start his rounds.