Routine
Thought it is, by butchered definition, my job, no where does it say that I am required to enjoy my duties. In fact, I believe it is safe to say that I loath every moment I spend sifting through the endeavours of one man, in hopes his next location will come to me by some devine intervention. There are times that I wish nothing more than to return to the state of oblivity I once referred to as knowledge. What they say is true : Ignorance is bliss.
But how can I honestly wish to be a born again imbecile. To be born away from her. To abandon her. Whenever the doubt crosses my mind, she enters, as she does now. Dark, deadly, beautiful. Her eyes pencilled dramatically, lips like rich wine, legs impossibly long, skirt alluringly short, heels indecently high.
And all in a split second I reduce to the sputtering child I am in her company. Mearly an insect she tolerates. She beacons for a cup of coffee as she passes, en route to her office. For a moment I ponder reminding her I am not her assistant, and more importantly, that coffee aggravates her ulcer. The thought leaves as quickly as it enters. I will simply not fetch her coffee, thus alleviating me of both problems.
Besides, I have bigger fish to fry, as they say.
I follow her through the frosted glass doors to her small safe haven, the yellow post-it crumpled in my palm. She notices me passingly as she seats herself on the corner ofher desk, one leg crossing over the other fluidly. Her voice mail harbours two messages. One from Lyle, something about the Bonyan Project, which for the record, is none of my business, and one from Mr. Parker, he addressing her in that horribly inaccurate "Angel" manner of his. "Cocoa" or "Tiger" maybe, but certainly not "Angel".
She enquires fleetingly as to her coffee, a thin cigarette gracing her lips as she ensues on a quest for a lighter, or anything flammable able to light itself, I imagine. After a moment, she snaps at me the one word that has so often passed from between her lips in my direction, that I now consider it a valid greeting.
It is a moment before I open my sweaty palm, dropping the wrinkled note nearly in her lap. She reads my face before retrieving it, and lets her eyes read the text, which I hope is considerably easier.
Now it is my turn to assess her emotions, and it is not difficult. Her eyes sparkle and the pallor of her skin makes way for a vague, yet healthy, glow. A smile, well, more of a smirk, flavours her normally humourless face as she hops from her desk, a new spring in her step.
The cigarette connects soundlessly with her desktop as she tosses it away, grasping my arm and dragging me with her, as always. She calls for Sydney, but he has already received the note I left for him, ready to head of on the fly as he always seems to be, and I am greatly relieved I hat the foresight to send Debbie to her grandmothers.
We board the plane, settling into our normal routine. He runs, we chase.
Thought it is, by butchered definition, my job, no where does it say that I am required to enjoy my duties. In fact, I believe it is safe to say that I loath every moment I spend sifting through the endeavours of one man, in hopes his next location will come to me by some devine intervention. There are times that I wish nothing more than to return to the state of oblivity I once referred to as knowledge. What they say is true : Ignorance is bliss.
But how can I honestly wish to be a born again imbecile. To be born away from her. To abandon her. Whenever the doubt crosses my mind, she enters, as she does now. Dark, deadly, beautiful. Her eyes pencilled dramatically, lips like rich wine, legs impossibly long, skirt alluringly short, heels indecently high.
And all in a split second I reduce to the sputtering child I am in her company. Mearly an insect she tolerates. She beacons for a cup of coffee as she passes, en route to her office. For a moment I ponder reminding her I am not her assistant, and more importantly, that coffee aggravates her ulcer. The thought leaves as quickly as it enters. I will simply not fetch her coffee, thus alleviating me of both problems.
Besides, I have bigger fish to fry, as they say.
I follow her through the frosted glass doors to her small safe haven, the yellow post-it crumpled in my palm. She notices me passingly as she seats herself on the corner ofher desk, one leg crossing over the other fluidly. Her voice mail harbours two messages. One from Lyle, something about the Bonyan Project, which for the record, is none of my business, and one from Mr. Parker, he addressing her in that horribly inaccurate "Angel" manner of his. "Cocoa" or "Tiger" maybe, but certainly not "Angel".
She enquires fleetingly as to her coffee, a thin cigarette gracing her lips as she ensues on a quest for a lighter, or anything flammable able to light itself, I imagine. After a moment, she snaps at me the one word that has so often passed from between her lips in my direction, that I now consider it a valid greeting.
It is a moment before I open my sweaty palm, dropping the wrinkled note nearly in her lap. She reads my face before retrieving it, and lets her eyes read the text, which I hope is considerably easier.
Now it is my turn to assess her emotions, and it is not difficult. Her eyes sparkle and the pallor of her skin makes way for a vague, yet healthy, glow. A smile, well, more of a smirk, flavours her normally humourless face as she hops from her desk, a new spring in her step.
The cigarette connects soundlessly with her desktop as she tosses it away, grasping my arm and dragging me with her, as always. She calls for Sydney, but he has already received the note I left for him, ready to head of on the fly as he always seems to be, and I am greatly relieved I hat the foresight to send Debbie to her grandmothers.
We board the plane, settling into our normal routine. He runs, we chase.
