Hefting the canvas from the easel I set it down on the window sill to dry. Things would move much better and faster with the help of the sun, which had made a near miraculous appearance already, betraying February’s usual modus operandi.
The iron clouds had parted for a blessed moment of illumination. It was still cooler than I liked, but much more tolerable. Either way, it was preferable to most other places in the country, where the potential for snow still lingered.
My project abandoned, I moved to the kitchen in search of a different kind of fulfillment.
The incision was clean. Running from tip to tip, opening the flaky pastry just so. That was the easy part. Far more taxing to hand and mind was the application of a pair of milk chocolate peanut butter cups, nestled within the two halves. Not exactly a ‘breakfast of champions’ but very enjoyable nonetheless. Usually the chocolate would have been already in the croissant when it was baked, but I like to do things my own way.
The lid held down with a strategically placed toothpick, I place the chocolate croissant sandwich into the microwave
As the microwave hummed and worked its magic, I set about other endeavors. A copper kettle was one of the primary tools in my arsenal. Time was it would have been coffee, but I’d been off it for the last few years. Even the smell of it had started putting me slightly on edge. I still liked a hot drink in the morning and switched over to tea.
As the kettle boiled and the croissant turned, I took a surreptitious pull from my
e-cigarette. The beep joined the chorus of noises in the small kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder if the little device was an absurdity.
Rather than outright quitting my life-threatening habit, I’d surrendered to another form of technology, supposedly to take care of my health. Even in a situation of something that might well kill me. How trusting we were of untested devices. Just as long as our pleasures could continue.
Properly chemically roused, by both chocolate and caffeine, not to mention the little hit of nicotine, it was time to commence with the paid work of the day. Boucher Books was still a going concern, despite my absence. We were even taking on new staff. Something I’d never really considered, but there it was.
The movements of the office weren’t exactly the top of my mind that day. It was getting to be close to Valentine’s Day and I had to get cracking. The candidates were never known for sure. Though, if previous years were anything to go by, there were always rumors. And usually a Slack group or two.
Usually they got it pretty close. My type wasn’t exactly a secret and there were a few female workers who fit the bill. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it that year, with the lockdown and all, but it wasn’t like they were stopping cars.
Not yet anyway, and certainly not stretched limos with tinted windows. Too much risk of it being used by a politician or mafioso. Neither of them the type you’d want to get on the wrong side of. It would be a simple matter of sending a doctor to the winner to do a test. Then, if they were clean, having them brought straight to my place. Even the government couldn’t outright stop travel to private homes. Not as things stood
The list of candidates was clear in my head. I could see them clearly. As well as having a good idea of what they looked like out of their work clothes. At first glance, the women, all employees at the publishing house for at least three years, didn’t seem to have much in common. One a buxom redhead. Another a cute, skinny brunette. Others curvy blonds, and at least one petite pixie who wore bubblegum-pink ringlets. Quite different indeed.
At least on the obvious, physical level. I’d been looking for something more subtle. Clearly there if you were looking for it. Though, easily missed if you were not. A certain consistency of line, at least in the physical sense.
It didn’t matter exactly what size or shape it took. I was attracted to symmetry. More than that, though, I required anyone who might to be considered to have something else. Something much harder to define, let alone spot. A quality best described by the phrase ‘gentleness of spirit.’
Despite the difficulty, particularly of identification, I had my candidates. Six in all. All of them likely to serve well during the project. It was just a matter of shortening the list. First to three and then to two. One winner as well as a runner-up, in case the winner wanted to back out or doesn’t clear the test.
As though the fates had been listening, my phone let out its happy chime. Alerting me to the arrival of a new message in my email. A child of the Digital Age as much as younger folk, possibly more so considering I remembered when the internet first went public, I went right to my account.