A Court's Maim

کام | Work

Chapter 11.

The tip of the sleek gold plated pen simply sealed fates. No questions asked. Deliverance alone — it's sole purpose of manufacturing. Between that and the manilla pages, the millimeter of distance was covered with thick tension. Debatable — yes, forgettable — no. On the base of it, the rim of the eggshell white mug was spotless — like the track record of it's owner. Amongst the starry lights that dotted the ceilings of the white washed walls, the deep claret feature wall with an image of a distorted Marylin Monroe, the room was anything but the definition of an attorney's office. A brass balance rested on top of the black desk, the plates hanging used for her ash tray — the system was corrupted and she was playing her part in insulting it.

Her steely eyes glossed over the manilla pages, all the while her fingers fingered the tan edges of the envelope they had been delivered in. The cursive words and straight line that across any terms she despised, were cause for alarm. Point twelve aria font. Filled with the neat cuts of her red pen, wrecking anything that stood in it's way. With legs crossed and the bony elbows propped on top of the table she watched the man — whose rosy cheeks and grey hairs were the early signs of a pending retirement. She humored the man, whose lisp was almost cute, but debatable. The tip of her heels dug into the leg of her desk, keeping it from shaking unnecessarily as he read out the terms of a potential client.

Light blue, unwavering skies behind the window of her office hid the smokey chimneys of the factories nearby. Thunderous cars and ambulances whizzed by, their sounds almost annoyed her if it were not for the cold breeze that blew in. The wind rustled her pages and she held the snow globe paper weight in hand, stamping her seal over the documents a last time. A dim overlay of orange sunlight burnt thinly through, the rain last night had buried all signs of summers and threw them whole heartedly into the beginnings of an early winter. The clock, a deep oakwood with copper details struck noon, and raps on the door sounded.

They took her for a fool — Barekhna thought as her boss left behind his pert assistant, the rumors of their affair had been going around for while. She though, steered clear of that, whoever he chose to fuck with was not her problem, so long as he signed her cheques on time. Uncrossing her legs she tugged at the cigarette trousers that had risen a few inches. An ivory shade, the cotton trousers matched her midi length shirt, the white embroidery on it swirling around the v of her neckline. On her bare arms the wind gave birth to goosebumps, her hair pushed back and the yellow diamonds on display. Easter wear was not what came to her comfortably but something about it that morning had struck her heart, and the white stilettos were perfect enough to compliment the diamond studded anklet her sister-in-law's had gifted her.

For a minuscule second the icy aura slipped, her lips pressed along the mug and the luke-warm creamy coffee ran down her depraved throat. Alone with her thoughts at last, the cheery congratulations finally over and with them the poison behind the grins gone too. It was not unknown, the envy of her positions. At her age — daughter to a wealthy businessman, now wife to one too — she had pulled the best straws in life. Dangling a demure grin by the edge of her lips she let out a breathy laugh, the voice a bit too coquettish. They were stupid. Even with her eyes closed, she would not fight a battle for the governor of Lahore. She had sensed bad blood between him and her husband — and though the latter would never ask her to give up, Barekhna was not in the mood to be an ally with her greatest ally's enemy.