JANUARY

the day she ruminated.

It had been three days since Namie had started working for the man.

Izaya Orihara, she reasoned, was not an ordinary person. In three days it seemed she had seen every possible deviation of human behaviour. Despite her meeting with him earlier that month regarding the supposed disappearance of her younger brother, she had certainly not been prepared for his actual personality. For him she had adopted a stereotype of a scheming, nasty person who kept to themselves and probably didn't have many friends in high school.
Of course, after her brief meeting with him, her opinion had indeed changed slightly. He was certainly charismatic. Talkative. Driven, if need be. He even had something of a charm around him that could have been described as flirtatious had she not been utterly repelled. Sweetly disgusted by his charming, over-complimentary manner, she had hoped that after the meeting concerning her brother she could turn around and never interact with the man again.
Admittedly, despite the constant flattery and respectful politeness (which she highly suspected was false), she actually hadn't minded him too much. If it was anyone else, she might have even considered having a coffee or a smoke with him.

However, upon meeting the man named Izaya Orihara, Namie had immediately felt uneasy. Something about him had struck her as wrong. Like there was a puzzle piece missing somewhere that would have otherwise led to her understanding of this person. Like there was something she couldn't figure out.
Perhaps, this was the reason she had found herself accepting the offer of becoming his secretary.

Of course, this wasn't the only thing that had spurred her to accept the job. Namie was no fool; she knew how to make decisions. She knew what a valid reason was. Namely, the crisp, five-digit figure sitting temptingly at the bottom of the paper.

Did she regret it? Namie was not sure.

Watching the composed, sly man known as Izaya Orihara run his fingers through his hair, bite his nails to the quick, and mutter and curse to himself at his desk, she wasn't quite sure what she thought of anything at this stage.

"You shouldn't be doing that, you know. Nail biting can lead to skin infections."
Izaya did not reply.
"Also, if you're muttering like that regularly and fidgeting a lot, it can indicate that you've got some condition like anxiety or impulse control disorder. I recommend you get a therapist or something."
Once again, no reply. Despite all the creaking bookshelves and the multiple telephone sets and the city roaring just outside the windows, the apartment made no sound.
Namie snorted, loudly. Izaya twitched.
"I'm thinking. Please don't bother me. Also, I don't think nail-biting is something you can link directly to mental health."
"I wouldn't have brought it up if you were someone else, but knowing you, it's not unlikely."
"That was a pretty rude remark."
"Don't get pissed. I'm a neuroscientist. It's just an observation."
Izaya just sighed and went back to staring intently at his screen, rubbing his index fingers in circular motions against his temples.
Namie groaned inwardly and went back to her files.

Life as a secretary is not thrilling. Despite being glamorised and dramaticized constantly in rom-coms and soap operas, it's nothing like the life of affairs, fateful encounters and tears that people seem to hold so close to their perceptions.
Put simply, it is boring. And the case of an ambitious, independant woman like Yagiri Namie to serve under an abnormal, irritating and work-obsessed man like Izaya Orihara was no exception.

Namie, a fast, punctual and effective worker, often found herself short of tasks to carry out in between calls; and so naturally she found herself perched on the emergency stairs, staring out onto the noisy, mist-shrouded Shinjuku district, a cigarette dangling from her left hand. She took a puff of it and let the smoke stream out her mouth into the wind; it seemed to blend into the fog and was gone. She ritually did this, long drags of the cigarette and slow breaths out into the wind. Slowing down her breathing relaxed her; she allowed her mind to wander to other places. Eventually, she wasn't really even thinking at all; just wasting time. The phone she had taken lay silently, unringing beside her. She sat there, legs dangling through the black-painted iron bars on the emergency steps, resting her face on her elbows, until eventually the cigarette was little more than a stub two centimetres long. She puffed out the smoke and dropped the stub down through the bars; it fell into the fog and was lost from sight.

"You really shouldn't do that, you know. That stump might fall right on someone's head. Or a stray cat. Or a Raira schoolgirl's homework."

Namie jumped with the shock of hearing another person's voice. She reluctantly turned her head to see Izaya standing behind her with a nonchalant expression. He laughed a bit at her reaction.

"Lost in thought, huh?"

Namie just grumbled indignantly, turning back to stare out at the city. Izaya walked over and sat beside her, copying her posture. They were quiet for a while. The two had not known each other for much longer than a month, but everyone has their own struggles, and sometimes one can feel more comfortable with a stranger than anyone else. It is an escape and a luxury to be in the company of someone uninvolved in all your troubles. The silence was comfortable although they were both wrapped in their own thoughts.

"I bet you probably sit here a lot," Namie said, her speech muffled a little by her arms covering her mouth slightly.

"Well, people-watching is my hobby," he answered truthfully. Namie tutted.

"Hobbies are stupid."

"I wonder."

They were silent for a while more. Wordlessly, Namie pulled the cigarette packet out of her pocket and nudged Izaya with her elbow, holding it out. He smiled, shaking his head.

"I don't smoke," he said quietly.

"G~ood mor~ning!" Izaya sang from his desk as Namie entered the room.
"Morning!" Namie sang back with equal enthusiasm. Izaya was taken aback.
"That was surprisingly cheery of you. Good weekend?"
"You could say so."

Izaya shrugged but didn't pry, just nodded and got back to his desk. Namie hung up her dripping raincoat, shook the raindrops off her red umbrella, and moved on to her paperwork.
For approximately an hour, they didn't talk; Izaya seemed to have been very enwrapped in his work since before Namie had arrived and Namie was not one to look for distraction from her job. Eventually Izaya stretched out his arms and yawned, leaning back.

"Coffee?" Namie asked absent-mindedly.
"Oh, if you don't mind."
Namie nodded and put down the books she was carrying, walking over to the adjoining kitchenette.

"By the way," Izaya said casually. "-have you told anyone that you're working for me?"
Namie frowned.
"I don't think so. It's possible I might have mentioned it in small talk or something, but I haven't really brought it up especially. Why?"
"No, it's nothing."
Namie paused for a second, then, unconcerned, walked back and put one of the mugs of coffee on his desk.

"Thanks," he said. "Oh, and on an unrelated topic, that umbrella you had this morning. It was red, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Namie said awkwardly.
"The one you had two days ago was black and it had a rubber handle, not a wooden one. And on the first day you came here, it was white and it had a pattern."

Namie stiffened.

"Your point?"
"Just an observation. I wasn't expecting a practical woman like you to have a hobby like collecting umbrellas."
"It's not a hobby. It's been raining a lot lately." She replied curtly.
Izaya chuckled a bit.
"I don't mind, you know. It's just surprising. I thought you disapproved of hobbies."
"It's not a hobby."
Izaya just laughed again. Namie turned her face away and busied herself with the books.

"I'm taking my break now," said Namie matter-of-factly.
"Alright," Izaya called back although she was already half out the door. He rarely had any qualms with Namie's breaks, mainly because she usually got most of the necessary filing done within the first few hours she was around. The door shut, then opened again a few seconds later.
"Call for you," Namie said irritably, holding out one of the various phones she had on her. Izaya had insisted on it, mainly because in his line of work, the time you take to tend to a client can be the difference between life and death. For the client or for you.
"Thanks," he said slowly, taking the phone from her.
"I'm not picking up any more until I'm back," she said, putting the other two phones on his desk. "Pick up your own damn calls."
Izaya probably would have argued with her had he not been obliged to answer the phone vibrating with impatience. Instead, he just awkwardly waved her away. She didn't need telling twice, and was out the door in a heartbeat.

"Hello?"

When Namie came back, Izaya was initally nowhere to be seen. Some of the papers tacked to the walls rustled about and a few pages of an open book on the coffee table turned, and Namie turned her head to see that the fire escape door was slightly ajar. She hung up her coat and shoved, with some difficulty, the blue striped umbrella into the relatively crowded umbrella rack before walking over to the emergency door and glancing through the gap.

Izaya was sitting there turned away from her, legs hanging out through the bars and chin resting in his arms. There was a cigarette in his mouth.

"I thought you didn't smoke," she mused.

"I don't," he said, quietly.