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For a Fortnight
Shai's second day is unfolding much like her first. She awoke before her 6 o'clock alarm, baffled this morning not by her general surroundings, but by the darkened lamp at her bedside. She was sure she had fallen asleep with it on. I guess not, she thought. In the bathroom, she performed her morning's ablutions; washing and moisturizing her face and neck, applying deodorant, and brushing her teeth. She dressed in an outfit similar to yesterday's. Afterwards, she brushed her hair back into a ponytail and braided it to keep it under control and out of her way, although she had trouble locating her hair ties in her bedroom and bath. Unable to solve the mystery, she dug out two from the side compartment in her satchel.
She is now out in the kitchen preparing breakfast rather than eat another morning in the cafeteria; a bland selection of bran cereal with a splash of almond milk, vanilla yogurt, and fresh fruit. She sits at the island bar, and grabs one of her cookbooks. She begins to review that evening's recipe in between spoonfuls of flakes and bites of apple. She takes a half an hour to eat, then places her dishes in the dishwasher. She pulls the grocery list from the cookbook, folds it, and slips it into her satchel. Wearing her sweater and scarf, she throws the bag over her head, and leaves to go shopping. Her ride down from the 63rd floor is uneventful except for one curious onlooker who enters the car on the 59th floor.
Shai returns to her apartment to choose a book for her bedtime read and then makes her way to the mom and pop store she patronized yesterday. Having written detailed instructions out on the back of the list, she hands it to the proprietor's wife. The groceries will be delivered to Shinra that afternoon. Shai buys a bouquet of summer blossoms, nods to the shop owner, and returns to Shinra. Her ride up in the elevator is not only a source of scrutiny today, but of whispers as well. Who is she? Isn't that the general's floor? Are the flowers for the general? Had she the use of her voice, she would have gladly answered every question. Unfortunately, she has to remain silent. There is no room for her to sign and she doesn't want to add more fuel to the fire.
The first exception to her day is that afternoon. Lunch comes and goes without a visit from the general. No training in the dojo this morning. No vision in a kendo uniform quenching his thirst in the kitchen. Just the thought of the day before has Shai's vivid imagination wandering. She pillages the storage closet, removes a microfiber mop and a spray bottle containing soapy water, and vigorously washes the tile floor in the kitchen and entry.
The second exception to her day comes in the form of a text on her phone. Naturally, Shai assumes it is Dr. Moreau, but nearly drops the cell after reading the sender's name: Sephiroth. She goes to her contacts and, sure enough, under S is the general's name. No rank, just his name. She hits the text. Do not plan on me for dinner, it reads. Ok, Shai thinks, no big deal. Another late night at work. There is bound to be more than one. She'll reduce the recipe in half and eat another dinner alone. Careful, Shai, she thinks. You sound like a disgruntled housewife.
The grocery delivery is about as eventful as she anticipated. A lone, mystery woman loading enough boxes and bags of food to take up the entire space on the elevator. Every floor it stops on, Shai is forced to make a gesture of apology when the passenger cannot enter, earning her scowls and/or exaggerated exhales of annoyance and disapproval. She wishes like hell there had been a freight elevator she could have used. Thankfully, she should not have to leave the condo until her next shopping trip.
Unpacking the groceries takes some time. She tries to imagine how the general would have the cupboards and pantry arranged and stocks them accordingly, organizing the food by its use and type. If he doesn't approve, she is sure she will hear about it. Shai leaves out the ingredients for dinner and decides to make the full recipe and leave leftovers in the fridge. She can place them next to the leftovers from last night.
Having time to kill while the steaks marinate, Shai takes the initiative and cleans out the fridge to make room for the fresh food. She empties the takeaway containers into the garbage disposal and throws the containers in recycling. She arranges the food as orderly as she did the dry goods. Hopefully, this won't come back to bite her. But this is also part of her job if she is to serve as chef as well as cleaner; a clean and ordered kitchen to work in. If there ever comes a time when he is home long enough to speak to, Shai will happily explain her reasoning behind her kitchen organization. You're doing it again, she thinks. You're sounding like a neglected spouse, and it's only day two.
Without dinner conversation, she decides to read while she eats. The book is one she has read before, never tiring of the protagonist's antics and the romance story woven in between his daring deeds. Shai would have to label herself a hopeless romantic, always rooting for the lovers in the end. Her mother instilled in her her love of reading, her father her love of music. Both encouraged her in her artistic endeavours. Shai wonders where she would be today had they both not passed away. Not a domestic servant, not at Shinra, and definitely not for General Sephiroth.
From dinner until bedtime, Shai busies herself with tidying the kitchen, taking a shower, and beginning a new sketch, this one of the flowers she bought today. They sit on her dresser in a glass pitcher she was forced to use as a makeshift vase. She does several sketches before calling it a night. She lies down in bed and opens her novel. Shai remembers finishing up the chapter she was reading at dinner, and setting the book on the bed. She intended to read more, but must have fallen asleep. She dreams of a bright figure with one wing hovering over her before she falls into darkness.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Shai understands having to work late two nights in a row, maybe even three or four. She understands that sometimes a challenging career demands weekend hours as well, but two weeks? It has been fourteen monotonous days since she began her work here and in that span she has seen the general for a handful of hours, and that is a generous estimate. She stopped cooking full meals after the fourth night, having to toss expired leftovers into the garbage disposal more than once. She thought she had a solution. Knowing he never took leftovers from the fridge for lunch, Shai assumed it was because he lacked the means to reheat them. She innocently approached him early in that first week with the proposal to warm the food at home and deliver it to him personally. She was met with a stern order that under no uncertain terms is she to go to his office.
On the bright side, he is courteous enough to tell her when he will miss dinner, either by text or verbally on the few occasions she sees him after training in the morning. She always makes sure she looks productive when he is home, so he is not thinking she is lounging around while he is at work, and most days, Shai can find something to clean. Though, to be honest, she spends her days doing the very thing she tries to avoid; lounging around.
She does not do it in the living area. She has the sense to keep her inactivity confined to her bedroom. She completed her novel days ago, and has drawn every piece of furniture in the condo. She even put together a still life on her dresser to give her something new to do. But to spend her days being unable to fulfill the basic requirements of her job, is driving her crazy. The only room left to clean, that has not been touched with a dust cloth or vacuum since her arrival, is his bedroom. The door remains closed day and night. She has no idea its dimensions or decor or the size of his en suite bathroom. So much time has passed, that she is reluctant to ask him his expectations with respect to his room.
In fact, he has not given her any feedback, positive or negative, regarding her work here, or even her being here. He has clearly made the decision to deal with her by not dealing with her. Is this how her life is to be now? No one is saying she has to stay. She still has her client list from before, but working here has allowed her to live in a real home again, not some glorified closet converted into a studio apartment. If she is honest, she likes the money she is earning. She already has a nice nest egg started. As difficult as it has been trying to get to know a specter, she's not sure she wants to return to her previous life.
Maybe she hasn't given it enough time. After all, it has only been two weeks, but they have been the longest two weeks she's experienced since the death of her parents and the loss of her voice. Even Dr. Moreau's attention has tapered off. She would text or visit those first few days, but Shai has not heard from her now in over a week. Maybe she should contact her. Invite her to dinner, so she doesn't have to dine alone.
She's making something simple tonight: sauteed chicken sandwiches on focaccia bread. Moreau takes no time in answering her text; I'll be there! She arrives at five thirty and brings a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
"I hate drinking by myself," says Moreau, uncorking the bottle.
I agree. Shai produces two wine glasses. Moreau fills them half way and hands one to Shai.
"What shall we drink to?" Shai sets down her glass to answer, first writing it down, then signing.
Our health? Friendship? Thick head of hair?
"How about to successful working relationships and budding friendships?"
Perfect. They ring their glasses together and Moreau takes a healthy sip of the wine. Shai sips hers and returns to sauteing the chicken and mixing the mayonnaise, mustard, and rosemary spread, all the while wondering if Moreau's toast is referring to the two women or Shai and her elusive client or both. When the meat is cooked through and juices run clear, Shai places the chicken breasts on the slices of focaccia and tops it with the spread. Sandwiches prepared, she serves Moreau, seated informally at the island bar. The ladies clink their glasses again and drink. To Moreau's surprise, Shai begins to cry. She sets down her glass immediately and places her hand on Shai's shoulder.
"Shai! What is it?" Shai opens the sketchbook and begins to write frantically on the paper, page after page, in quick succession, in writing barely legible. Moreau waits patiently for her to finish. It doesn't take a detective to know who this is about. It's just a matter of to what extent. Shai passes the book to Moreau. She doesn't bother translating her message into sign language. The doctor mumbles as she reads, pausing occasionally when Shai's writing is closer to scribbles than letters or tear drops have blurred the words.
"The general has barely been home...you never see him...not one dinner...cleaned every surface in the condo except his bedroom...feel useless...should resign." Moreau sighs and closes the book. She takes both of Shai's hands in hers.
"First and foremost, please do not resign. Like you mentioned, it has only been two weeks. If conditions do not improve, say, after a month, then you may do what is best for you. But please, please give this another chance. I will speak to the general." Shai eyes widen and, panicked, she shakes her head abruptly side to side. She forgets herself and who she is with and begins to sign, her movements and gestures moving too quickly for Moreau to keep up.
No, no , no, no! You cannot! He will know I have talked with you! He will know how I feel! Please do not! Moreau grabs her wild hands, presses them together, then places them on Shai's lap.
"I have no idea what you just said, but I can guess that you do not want me to say anything." Shai nods. Moreau smiles reassuringly at her.
"OK. OK. Mum's the word. Now, how about we enjoy our dinner. Hmm? It looks amazing!"
After dinner, Moreau and Shai finished off the bottle of wine over dessert. Seated on the couch, bathed in the light of the fire, the doctor talked about topics ranging from why she went from genetic research into counselling to why she never married. Shai was more than happy to just listen. Half past eight, Moreau said her goodbyes and assured Shai that she would not mention this to the general. She thanked the young woman for a delicious dinner and for not giving her resignation. The elevator bell rang and Moreau waved until the doors closed.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
When Moreau walks into her condo, she shuts the door, and leans back against it. Her thoughts are thrown into confusion. What am I going to do with that man? I told Shai I would not interfere, but I can't just sit idly by while he plays mind games with her. She stands upright, her decision made, and takes her phone from her pocket. She taps Sephiroth's extension on the keypad.
"I hope you can forgive me, Shai," she says to herself, seconds before her call is answered.
"Hello, general. Are you busy?"
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Sephiroth answers the knock on his office door, and is nearly bowled over by Moreau charging past him.
"Is there something wrong, doctor?" he asks, shutting the door, and returning to sit behind his desk. Open in front of him is an oversized book, that he is quick to close and conceal with a report.
"We need to talk, Sephiroth." Damn, he thinks to himself, she has that edge to her voice; the tone of the disappointed parent. It's a role she fell into when he was a child and he would tamper with Hojo's experiments to make the results inconclusive.
"What have I done or failed to do now?"
"It concerns Shai." His eyes flash, and Moreau knows she has struck a nerve.
"What about her?"
"Whatever mindfuckery you're playing on her, stop." No, this is not a disappointed parent, or even an annoyed counsellor. She has passed that point. This is 160 centimeters of enraged Sybelline Moreau.
"What makes you think I would do such a thing?"
"To get her to resign." Another flash.
"She's resigned?"
"No, but it is only matter of time if you keep treating her like she's invisible. I just left your place. She broke down in tears while eating dinner."
"You were having dinner with her?"
"She invited me. Clearly, she is tired of eating on her own. What have you been doing every evening that is so damn important?! And weekends!" Moreau begins to pace, her temperament that of a small canine bristling at a larger rival.
"She has done everything expected of her, and more, I might add! Your place is cleaner than when you moved in! She cooks better than that sad excuse for a chef in Shinra's executive restaurant! She's up at the crack of dawn to-"
"Sybelline."
"You're not even letting her do your laundry, and-"
"Sybelline."
"She puts up with the stares and gossip. You never gave this arrangement a cha-"
Sybelline!"
"What?!" He throws the report aside, spins the oversized book around, and shoves it towards her. Moreau picks it up, reads the title, and flips through the pages, pausing to read over a page or two. The flush that had coloured her face has paled, leaving behind red blooms on her cheeks. What was once anger, is now embarrassment.
"This is what you have been doing?"
