Paperclip
“Are you going to finish that?” A dark-haired woman sarcastically asked her boss, who was sitting in a creaking chair behind a very official-looking oak desk. Her dry hands motioned to a cup of coffee, two or three days old, in which a ring was beginning to form. It sat upon his desk and functioned as a sort of paperweight, holding down important documents. They would have blown away, otherwise. A rotating fan was in the corner, its head swiveling and blowing air around the room.
“I’m sorry, what?” The man asked, not really listening to his assistant. His eyes flitted up to look at her as he turned his head slightly in her general direction. She nodded towards the cup and looked back down at him. He nodded quickly and went back to clicking away at his typewriter. “Run down to Garcia’s and grab me a pack of smokes, will you?”
“You know, you really should give me your cups as soon as you’re done with them. The ring is going to leave a stain.” She said, raising an eyebrow at him. Under the employer/employee relationship, there was a sort of friendship. The pair had been working with each other for years and had grown to know each other’s habits and opinions. They could speak to each other with a sort of familiarity that was rare in the world.
The assistant reached across a pile of folders and picked the cup off of the mound of papers. They immediately jumped into the air and began to fall all over the office like a scattering of winter snow. The woman jumped a bit and dropped the cup on the desk in surprise. It did not break as she had feared, but instead tipped over and spilled its cool contents on all of the man’s papers.
“Damn!” He said as he leapt out of his seat and turned the cup back to a standing position. The assistant, frazzled, took off her pastel green sweater and tried to mop up the spill. He swore again and put his hands on his hips. The man slowly wandered over to the window and put his hands on the frame as the woman picked up individual sheets of paper and tried to dry them. The silence of the room allowed the frantic typing of key in the work area outside to slip into their ears.
The man looked down at the street outside. The world looked like a painting through the window as cars sped and honked their way through the streets. There were skyscrapers all around, caging them in. He was vaguely aware of his assistant talking to him, but her words were just echoes in the background. Sliding his fingers under the windowpane, he pulled it open and breathed in the night air. His eyes closed for a moment and he scratched the stubble on his chin.
Opening his eyes, he took the hat off of his head and examined it. It was black, worn, and had a cigarette stuck in the band. He rubbed the brim, enjoying the familiar feel of the fabric under his fingers. And with that, he tossed it out the window. It fell much more quickly than the pieces of paper that the fan had moved from his desk.
“What are you thinking?” His assistant said quietly from beside his desk. She had stopped trying to mop up the spill and was holding her dripping sweater in both hands. The man did not turn to look at her, but kept his hazel eyes positioned on the speeding cars below him. Their honking sounded almost musical.
“How long do you think it would take for me to hit the ground?” He said softly, after a few intensely still moments. The night air caressed his face like a warm blanket, inviting him home. It was such a familiar, comfortable feeling. He rose onto the balls of his feet and put his head farther into the night with a sigh.
The click of his assistant’s ears brought him back to earth. She had her sweater, still wet with coffee, back on, and was quickly walking towards the door. She opened it, and then looked back at him, a look of helplessness lined in every feature of her face.
“Let me go get you some cigarettes.” The woman said. She slammed the door. The noise echoed in his eardrums.
