Soulmates are Overrated

Chapter Two

"Are ya working late tonight, Alex?" John's voice echoes from behind me. I shift in my seat to meet the gaze of the janitor behind me.

Despite his age, John is built strong; he likes to attribute it to the constant sweeping motion of the mop he runs across all twenty-three floors, but I know it's from his secret breaks in the office gym.

He always travels back up to level ten, the current level of my workspace, at the end of his shift. After accidentally locking me inside the building one night, he ensures the office is completely empty.

My parched lips open to answer him at the same time my phone buzzes. I glance downward at the screen.

Julian: Hey, Al, do you know what time you'll be home?

My eyes flutter to the clock in the corner of the screen that reads: 8:15 PM. Shit. I'm late.

"I'm packing up, John. But I can lock up if you want to go ahead and go."

"Thanks, Alex," John saunters over to me, quickly relinquishing his huge ring of keys. "Already locked all the individual offices and back entrances, front entrance is the only thing left open."

"Okay, I'll lock it on my way out. Find me in the morning to grab the keys?" I ask, as John slides his hands into the pockets of his unwrinkled coveralls.

"That works. Thanks again, Alex. I would stay till you leave, but the wife has the TV all set up for me to watch Isabella's recital."

I smile at the eagerness in his voice. "Of course, John."

The sound of the elevator doors sliding shut, announces the lonely space. The open space is only visible from the illumination of the lamp on the end of my desk and a few overhead lights that clicked on from John's movement. Sighing, I pick up my phone and reply to Julian.

Me: Sorry. Leaving the office now.

I run my fingers through my knotted hair, checking the blank computer screen in front of me. It takes me ten minutes to straighten my desk and lock the office. The entire building is different at night. The rushed and busy atmosphere disappears. In its wake are quiet and dark rooms, echoing silence. At night, it's easier to concentrate on the work in front of me, but harder to prevent my mind from running a thousand miles a minute.

The overbearing weight is almost too much to handle. You tackled a handful of reports today and that stack is a little less full, I remind myself. But no matter how much the words "you go this" repeat, the wall in my brain doesn't so much as crack. Instead, it announces the tremendous news from Mr. Bucher: I might lose my job in a month.

A plate of cold spaghetti and meatballs is waiting for me on the counter when I walk through the creaking door of home. I peel my aching feet out of my boots and sidle up to the bar, plopping my bag and files onto the countertop. I climb onto the bar stool, pulling the cold plate in front of me before diving into the garlic-seasoned meatballs. It's cold, but it's food.

I dive into the volcano of pasta as my eyes scour the imperfections of the kitchen. The original idea was to model an antique kitchen with some modern updates. There are rustic beige wooden cabinets and countertops painted a mix of hickory and chocolate, with a pale teal island in the center of the 'u' shaped cabinetry. The steel appliances are hidden perfectly in their respective spots, which required a lot of work as Julian constantly reminds me every time I mention their wobbling frames. On the day of its unveiling, I felt relieved it was over and I was proud of every piece, including the creaking doors, because of all the effort we put in. Looking at it now, all I feel is the need to scrap it all and start over.