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You shifted the phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder so you could type more efficiently, drinking in every word the bakery manager was saying. You would need the quotes for the article, and he had yet to say anything truly of interest.

You needed this to be good, not about how his wife did the menu on the chalkboard every morning.

When he finished, you jumped into the conversation before he could go off on another tangent. "Could you tell me more about the new recipes you've been trying?" You asked, getting him back on track to the point of your call.

"Oh, yes yes." He said. "Let's see, ah, we've started using a different starter for our rolls... I know I have some around here somewhere..."

You listened to him rummage around, tapping your fingers impatiently. You had been on the phone with him for at least an hour, and while you were sure he was a perfectly lovely man and someone his regulars enjoyed talking to, you were here on business. Being a freelance journalist meant a tight schedule and a lot of deadlines, and you had been hoping to get this interview done before you had to head home for the day. Needless to say, that was not exactly how it had happened.

The man prattled off about all the changes to the restaurant, and you finally typed up something useful. The quotes would be good for your writing, and the more quotes you got, the less actual writing you had to do.

You let your eyes wander as the man talked, catching on the photos you had pinned to your office walls. Technically, you weren't supposed to use tacks as it was a rented space, but Oscar - who owned the building - had been in and out of your office plenty of times without saying anything.

The photos stretched across your life - you as a little kid, toddling around with your friends at your parents flat, at your first formal in high school, graduating college, and more recently graduating university. It was a collection of snapshots leading up to the current era - 25 years of memories all summed up in a few photos.

It was a little bit sad, when you really thought about it.

You refocused on the interview at hand, the baker still prattling along about his work in your ear. You were getting sick of this. You scanned over the notes you had taken - it was enough to write with, and if you needed more, you could always call back. Though if you did, hopefully you would get someone else on the phone.

When the man finished his sentence, you cut in smoothly. "I think that should be more than enough for the article Mr. Wellington." You said.

"Oh already?" The man asked. "If you're sure-"

You cleared your throat. "Quite."

The man chuckled, even though you hadn't really meant it as a joke. "Ah, you've probably got a million other things to be doing. People always tell me I talk too much, but I can't really help it, you know? My mother did the same when I was young and I was always a mothers boy..."

You pressed your forehead into your hands. "Thank you for your time Mr. Wellington, but really I must be going."

"Right right." He said. "I'm sorry to have kept you longer than you intended. If you need anything else for your article you can always call again, I'm sure anyone would be happy to answer more questions, or your could always just ask for me..."

"Thank you again." You said, listening to him stumbled through a goodbye before hanging up the phone finally.

You slumped into your seat, reveling in the quiet of the office. Sometimes the place was too quiet, but after having your ear talked off for about two hours, the silence was welcome.

You scrolled through everything you had written while you were on the phone. You could organize it into an article tomorrow, but for now, you just wanted to head back to the flat. Your head was pounding and you were hungry, and it was Madelines turn to make dinner tonight.

You shut off your computer after making sure everything was saved and were reaching for your water when a loud shriek echoed through the walls. You startled, knocking over the bottle accidentally, and sending it splashing to the carpet.

You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath and reminding yourself that hitting things didn't solve problems.

It had been going on for a while now, the random shouts and screams coming from your neighbors office. You had never met them, so you didn't know what they did in there, but whatever it was was very disruptive. And annoying. And a little bit disrespectful if you thought about it.

You grumbled to yourself, picking up your now empty water bottle and grabbing your keys from the desk. You switched off the lights as you walked out the door, locking it behind you.

You headed towards the exit and the parking lot, stopping in front of your neighbors door. You could say something...

You raised your hand to rap on his door.

But no. You were angry and tired and you would just end up shouting at him in the middle of the hallway, and it would amount to nothing. It would be better if you just went on your way.

You dropped your hand and continued down the hallway, the worn blue carpet trodden down from daily passage.

Outside, the air had an autumnal chill to it, and you breathed it in greedily, refreshing after a lo day shut in a room with no windows getting your ear talked off. Just being out of that office made you feel significantly better.

You flipped your keys in your hand and made your way to your car, sliding into the drivers seat and tossing your bag in the back. Turning the ignition, you backed out of your parking spot and put the noisy neighbor from your mind. You would deal with it later.

KEEP A PLACE FOR ME // Wilbur Soot X ReaderWhere stories live. Discover now