POV: Cynthia / LOCATION: Galactic Energy HQ
"Do you like jazz, Miss Cynthia?"
I give him my honest opinion. "What's so addicting about some dude blowing on a horn for two hours straight?"
Cyrus snorts so loudly that he ends up coughing. "The trombone, you mean? When jazz was officially conceived, it birthed a revolution in music and society. It was free. It was a rebellion against the old ways—"
"For someone who values his breath, you sure talk a lot."
He cringes, as if he gets that a lot. "I apologize. The reason I brought it up is because I'll be putting on a jazz record into the audio system. You might like this album. The piano is the star player."
How does he know that I favor the piano? What is there not to like? The smooth, polished keys sliding off powdered fingers… the solemn resonance undulating between shy pianissimo to jubilant fortissimo… the cold silver light illuminating piano and pianist as the latter steals the hearts of all in the recital hall…
A chord of desire touches my core, leaving me momentarily breathless.
"What do you think of this song?" Cyrus hums.
It's beautiful.
"It's all right," I mumble.
As piano keys are tickled by unseen, masterful hands, I follow Cyrus into the elevator. Twenty-eight buttons for twenty-eight floors. It goes down fast, so there's no need to stare awkwardly at the wall.
"State-of-the-art," I whistle when we arrive at the sixth floor.
"Only the best for a new world."
While Cyrus brews his coffee, I wander around the area. And come running back like a character in a silent film.
"Cyrus! There's! It's!"
Coffee abandoned, he runs to my direction.
"What's wrong?" he almost shouts.
"Are those really rocket beds?"
A scowl falls from the sky and lands perfectly on his face. "Yes, Miss Cynthia. These are indeed rocket beds." His tone is so flat that you can use it to iron your clothes.
With a headrest carved to resemble the nose of a rocket and blankets sprinkled with constellations, these babies just demand for someone to occupy them.
Before I can dive in, Cyrus lifts a leg and slams it down on the mattress.
"Always ensure that the bed is unoccupied before using," he says by means of some bizarre explanation.
"Isn't that common sense?"
"You'd be surprised."
The mattress sucks me right in. It is so warm under these cotton blankets, so cozy like sleeping in an egg. As my eyelids begin closing on their own, the sudden appearance of his frightening face jars me back to cold reality.
"Up and at 'em, Miss Cynthia. It's morning."
Groaning, I drag myself from the rocket bed to join the spaceman at a table near some potted plants. He had prepared a cup of coffee for me. But I can't stand the musty odor, so he gets me some tea instead. The tea only makes me hungrier. Six sweet pancakes from the vending machine later satiates my rumbling belly somewhat.
Meanwhile, Cyrus is on his seventeenth cup of coffee.
"You're not going to eat breakfast?" I ask.
His eyes crinkle. "Are you concerned about my well-being, Champion Cynthia?"
"Not in your wildest dreams." I pop the piece of pancake I was reserving for him into my mouth. Surprisingly bland compared to the whole snack.
A new song plays from the speakers. The pianist performs as if possessed.
"So you're the CEO?" I say.
"I thought we established this already."
My image of a CEO is that of a statue in a museum. Always there, but roped off from the public. Omnipotent, but never looking down at those looking up at it. Then there's Cyrus who dresses like a hobo from outer space.
"Where is everyone?" I say, finally realizing that it's just us two in a giant building.
"Our doors don't open until nine."
"Is it normal for CEOs to be at work early?"
"I'm always here early."
"You might as well live here." I mean that as a joke, of course. But his reply is as solemn as a confession.
"I do live here."
It all makes sense now. That was his bedroom. On the other side of the hall is his office. An entire floor dedicated to work and personal life. From how sterile it was in the latter room, I have a pretty good idea which lifestyle he prioritizes more.
"You're staring at me," Cyrus says with a small smirk.
While he has the mannerisms of a fifty-year-old (clasping his hands behind his back and waddling around like he's some egotistical food inspector), the mischief dancing in his tired eyes is that of a child hiding a great secret from his friends.
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Twenty-seven."
"No. Flipping. Way."
"I know. I'm surprised I made it pass twenty."
Twenty-seven. We're very close in age. Gross! Thank the gods of good food that I didn't turn out all crusty like him!
"Pardon me." Cyrus flips open his phone. "Speak."
"Master Cyrus, I can't get in."
"Sliding your keycard is no longer necessary for entry. You can tap—"
"I forgot my keycard."
Cyrus sighs through his throat. I count ten whole seconds.
"Go in with Mars—"
"She broke hers last night. Hurry out, Master Cyrus, she's trying to break in through the back."
"'Master Cyrus?'" I say once the call ends.
Cyrus brews himself another cup of coffee. He stares intently into the murky liquid, as if dissecting its molecular components with his eyes.
"I suppose we should go before I have to replace another window."
