Francis Bailey’s green eyes stared back at her from the surface of the mirror like the eyes of an oracle, inscrutable and wise, at once soft and harsh. She breathed in and out gently, her hands on the sleek marble countertop which seemed to hover steadily at the most ergonomic distance below the glass. Soft LEDs glowed out from under the mirror, giving the bathroom a bluish tint. She stared at herself a moment longer, then turned to look out the window.
The bathroom enjambed the very edge of the skyscraper, near its corner, as if the architect had enjoyed a quiet, self-contained joke at the expense of almost no-one, and with no discernible goal in mind—as if they had simply found the precariousness of this location amusing. The window stretched from the floor to the ceiling, giving Francis a wide view of the city surrounding her. Thirty-six stories down, people moved, individual points shuffling from one place to another. From this height, they were shrouded by fog. Francis took in the view for a moment, then turned back to the mirror. She looked over herself. Suddenly she thought—how strange it was that this should pop into her head—that she had changed so much since the last time she had really looked at herself in the mirror. She drew a hand inward, as if to touch her stomach. She had been so much skinnier in high school—but that was years ago. It wasn’t even as if she was overweight now, but she had changed. She brushed her hair to the side, aware that she was avoiding going back out into the office. Why was that? she wondered. Then she thought, looking at her eyes again, that she had put too much mascara on in the morning. It accentuated her eyes a little too much.
The door swung open as quickly as if it had been kicked. Jean Simmons stepped in. “Hey, Francis,” she said, stepping swiftly into the middle stall.
“Hey, Jean,” Francis replied.
“You still free after work?” Jean’s voice emanated out from behind the metal door of the stall.
“Yeah, of course. We’re going out, right?”
“You bet. I have a surprise for you.”
Francis heard Jean pull her zipper down. Under the stall door, she could see her plain flats poking forward on the tiled floor. Francis quickly rinsed her hands under the automatic faucet. “Don’t tell me,” she said.
“I won’t,” Jean almost sung back. “Not until after work. See you then.”
“Bye.” Francis pushed the steel door open with her elbow and emerged into the office. Francis liked Jean—Jean was fun. When they had first met, Jean was quiet—almost shy—then they had gotten to know one another better, and Jean had opened up more and more.
Francis headed back to her cubicle, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she walked. The office was mostly empty—it wasn’t long after the second quarter had ended, and most people were taking their holidays now. She passed by Marcus Neiman’s cubicle on the way. In it, he sat at his computer with his back to her, typing something out. She arrived at her stall and sat down in her chair.
When she was relocated here by the company, she rearranged her cubicle to suit her better. She moved her computer to sit next to the walls’ opening, and centered her workspace around this spot. She was one row away from a window, and when she looked out over the neighboring cubicles, she could see the sky between all of the buildings. It helped her feel a little less hemmed in as she adjusted to her new position.
A voice from behind startled her: “Francis?” it said. It was her boss, Ryan. A disadvantage of the layout of her cubicle was that it put her back to his office, and when he came to check on her, he surprised her sometimes.
She spun around in her chair. She hadn’t even resumed working. “Yes?”
He was leaning against the gray edge of the cubicle. “Just wanted to check in with you. Did you get my message about the conference?”
She nodded. “Yes—I think I can do it, but I’ll check my calendar.”
He nodded in reply, stroking his dark beard. “I appreciate it. And afterwards—I think you should take a vacation. It’ll do you good to get some time off of work or something.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I noticed you didn’t take any extra time off last year,” he continued, “beyond the usual vacation hours, I mean.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t need to.”
“Right. Listen, I was thinking—I’ll have to talk to Alyssa. I think I can get you an extra couple of weeks off this year—since you didn’t take any last year.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think I can swing it.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled warmly. “Don’t mention it to anyone. Just—” he pointed awkwardly at her computer—“do a good job for me on this report, okay? And I’ll see what I can do.”
She nodded. For a moment, she watched him leave. Then she turned back to her computer and began to write again. The sky darkened—outside, the clouds turned pinker and pinker as they seemed to swirl into one another, and the glass of neighboring skyscrapers began to reflect the orange city lights one by one. At one point, she could hear Marcus leave the office, strolling out with his closest friends, laughing away and behind her. She waved her hand over her phone and checked the time. Then, she opened Vynesse and swiped through a few profiles absently before getting back to work. Before long, it was night. Francis met with Jean in the office lobby. Together, they stepped into the elevator and descended toward the earth.
“So…” Francis began. “What’s your surprise?”
Jean grinned. “I thought we’d get dinner first. How about Dim Sum?”
Francis scowled. “No fair. You said you’d tell me after work.”
“And it’ll still be ‘after work’ after we get dinner. Dim Sum?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The door chimed as it slid open. Jean sprung out nimbly—she was always the one to lead. “Come on,” she said, nearly laughing as she pulled Francis along. “If we catch the six we can be there in ten,” she added with a grin.
They burst out onto the noisy streets, weaving their way through the crowds and beneath the red and gold streamers that announced the upcoming parade. The fog had cleared out entirely, leaving only a few clouds that hovered far above them, and a pale, hazy moon that peered down upon the streets like a watcher-of-the-skies. Jean’s dark dress swung lightly about her hips as she strove through the crowd, and Francis realized she hadn’t noticed it earlier in the day. Had she changed? It’s a pretty dress, Francis thought, with all those little white polka-dots. Two blocks down from the office, they crossed the street and waited by the tram stop.
“It’s a pretty night,” Francis commented after a beat.
Jean leaned in closer. “What?”
“I said it’s a pretty night. It’s not too hot.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jean replied. “Yeah, it is. Sorry; it’s loud,” she explained.
Francis nodded. The number six tram rolled up quietly and opened its doors. As they got on, Francis slipped a hand into her pocket to take out her card, then stopped. “Are we going outside the free zone?” she asked.
“No,” Jean answered. “It’s just inside; I’m pretty sure.”
“Thanks.”
They climbed up into the body of the vehicle, almost pushed in by those behind them. Holding hands, they wormed their way to the back and found a place under two blue rubber handles. In the corner seat, there was a young man with a red scarf on his tablet. As the tram lurched off, he looked up, saw Jean and Francis, and stood. “One of you can have my seat, if you wish?” he offered. His accent was strange, at once harsh and lilting. Jean and Francis looked at each other.
“We’re fine,” Jean replied. “Thanks anyway.” The man nodded and sat back down. Outside, the shopfronts began to blur together softly as the tram sped up. Side-streets began to pass by one by one like cubicle walls, and the laser-cut shop signs flashed by like the images on the inside of a zoetrope.
“So,” Francis began, “how was work today for you?”
“Oh, you know. The same thing. I spent a few hours rewriting a bunch of code.”
“What are you working on again? I don’t remember if you told me…”
“Oh, we’re just reworking the website’s design. My boss wants a dark theme, plus a few other updates.”
“Sounds cool.”
“What about you; how was your day?”
Francis laughed. “I’m beginning to think I actually hate spreadsheets.”
“Ouch.”
“Nah, I mean it’s just a financial report, but it’s so tedious.”
Jean nodded. “I feel that.”
Once, then twice, the tram slowed to a halt to let passengers on and off. At the third stop, Jean let go of her rubber handle and pushed her way through the crowd. “This is us,” she explained, and together they darted off of the tram just before the doors slid shut automatically. “Come on,” she said.
“Have we been here before?”
“It’s new,” Jean answered. She led Francis back toward their office building before heading down an arcade with black and white marble tiles laid out on the floor. The restaurant was on the right, past a few fashion shops and an odd, narrow café. The interior was dimly lit, and Francis noted the dark, glass archway leading in.
“Looks fancy,” she commented.
“It’s not too pricey; I promise,” Jean replied. She stepped forward to the waitress who stood at the welcome desk. “I have a reservation for Simmons,” she said. The waitress checked the reservation list, nodded, and led them into the interior of the restaurant with a set of menus. They passed around the glowing bar and to a table in the back.
Francis sat down facing outward. Jean sat next to her, leaving two empty chairs across from them. “Would you like anything to drink for the moment?” the waitress asked.
“I think we’ll wait; thank you,” Jean answered.
“Call me over if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” When the waitress had gone, Jean turned to Francis. “Okay, I know what you’re thinking—this is not the kind of place we usually go out to.”
Francis looked at her friend. “Are you okay?”
Jean laughed. “I know you were expecting some grungy fry-station takeout place on the corner of Leiburn. I’m sorry to disappoint. Anyway, dinner is sort of the surprise I had planned.” She paused, almost unable to contain her excitement.
“Yeah? What’s going on?” Francis prompted.
“It’s a double date.”
“Oh. Like…” she trailed off.
“Yeah, I met this guy on Vynesse who was interested. He’s bringing a friend to be your date,” Jean explained. “If that’s okay, I mean.” A look of sudden worry crossed over her face.
“Yeah, of course. No, it seems… fun. You know, I thought earlier you were dressed nicer than you usually do.”
Jean blushed. “Yeah.” She brushed back a loose strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, I guess I just want to look my best, you know.”
Francis nodded. “So have you met this guy before? What’s his name?”
“His name’s James, actually. Two J names, I guess. Anyway, we messaged each other a bit before agreeing to meet up. I didn’t want to leave you out, you know.”
“Right; of course. Do you know his friend?”
Jean shook her head. “No, sorry. I bet he’ll be real cute though. Oh—” she gave a quick wave toward the front of the restaurant, drawing Francis’ eyes away—“there they are now.”
Francis’ heart tightened suddenly. Weaving their way between the tables was a stranger, James, and Francis’ date, Marcus Neiman. Jean and Francis stood automatically to greet them.
“Hi,” Jean said with a gracious smile, shaking James’ hand. “This is my friend Francis.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” James replied. “This is Marcus. Shall we?”
The four of them sat down, Francis and Marcus never having shaken hands.
“Hi, Francis,” Marcus said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Oh,” Francis replied. “I-I wasn’t expecting you either.”
“You know each other?” Jean butted in.
“We—” Francis and Marcus both started to speak at the same time. “Oh, sorry,” Francis offered.
“No, it’s okay. You go,” Marcus answered.
“We work together—well, in the same department, really. Several cubicles down.”
“Oh, nice!” Jean chimed. “You won’t need icebreakers, I guess.”
“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” James apologized. “Parking was awful.”
“No, no, it wasn’t long at all,” Jean explained. “Anyway, Francis is good company.”
“Have you decided what to get already?”
“Yeah, I was thinking we get a few different types of dim sum, and the crab rangoons, and then share them. If that works for everybody?”
“Fine by me.”
Marcus nodded absentmindedly, then put down his menu and looked at Jean. “Yeah, sounds good.”
“Francis?” Jean prompted.
Francis lowered her gaze from Marcus to the untouched menu in front of her. “Oh, yeah, of course. I’m down,” she answered quietly.
“I’ll flag the waitress down,” James said, turning in his chair to face outward. Jean turned to the other two.
“So you two spend a lot of time together at work?”
“I guess the normal amount,” Marcus answered, offering a weak smile in Francis’ direction.
“We’re not exactly the same department,” Francis explained.
“Oh, okay. Still…”
“Yeah, I don’t feel like I really know anything about you,” Francis continued, looking straight at Marcus.
“Same to you. What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I like a lot of indie rock. I’m really into Warring Pieces right now, actually. Do you know them?”
He nodded. “Yeah, yeah I’ve heard some of their stuff. It’s not really my thing.”
“What do you listen to?”
“Oh, you know. A bit of everything. So what else are you into?”
By this point James had successfully called the waitress over, and Jean ordered for everyone. “Like as in music or in general?” Francis asked.
“Whatever,” Marcus answered. “What kind of TV shows do you watch?”
“Depends. I watch a lot of weird stuff, to be honest. What about you?”
“Oh, I don’t watch a lot of TV shows, to be honest. I’m more of a movie person, I guess.”
“Oh, that’s cool. What kind of movies do you like?”
“Anything, really.”
“So what are your favorite movies?”
“Anything classic, I guess. The Godfather. Pulp Fiction, Predator, you know. I guess I just really like movies that are good, you know. What about you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t watch a lot of movies. I haven’t seen any of those?”
“You haven’t seen The Godfather?”
She shook her head.
“Wow. That’s crazy.”
She laughed. “Yeah, like I said, I mean I just don’t watch a lot of movies, you know?”
“Yeah. So what kind of TV shows are you into?”
“I got into this one show recently, actually—it’s called Redworld, like one word—”
His phone began to ring out from within his pocket. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said hastily, pulling it out and checking it. “Yeah, I gotta take this, sorry. I’ll be back in a minute, guys.” He pushed his chair back and held the phone up to his ear, heading toward the bathroom. Francis turned to face the other two, who were engaged in conversation.
“Really!” Jean exclaimed. “Oh, I love Deep Stet too! Oh, what’s your favorite track of theirs?”
“Two more to love, probably. But I like the whole album, really. What about you?”
“Oh, I’ve always preferred Time Over, to be honest.”
“Really?!” he answered with a sincere mix of curiosity and astonishment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before!”
She blushed. “Sorry, I know…”
“No, that’s cool. I like both albums a lot, so…”
Francis stared at James’ small, lone earring fashioned after a black gem, his dark, stubbly beard. She looked around, but couldn’t see where Marcus had gone.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing up and getting her purse. “I need to use the restroom.” Jean nodded very naturally, and James’ eyes followed her purse as she slung it over her shoulder and walked away.
In the bathroom, Francis washed her hands in the wide, marble basin; then, bending forward to bring herself closer to the sink, she splashed cool water on her face. For a moment, she was alone. As she was drying her face off, a tall, blonde woman came into the room and began touching up her makeup. Francis wiped off her hands thoroughly, threw away the clod of paper towels, and left.
After dinner, the four of them pushed their way out onto the busy streets, heading back towards the nearest tram stop.
“Let’s call a Ryde,” Marcus suggested, drawing out his phone.
“Sounds good to me,” Jean answered, even though it wasn’t a question. “Francis?”
“Oh, sorry—” Francis replied, pulled back to reality. “Yeah, sounds fine.”
“What were you looking at?” Jean asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking it’s clouded over.”
“Oh. Yeah, it is.”
The moon was no longer visible in the sky—only a pale streak of dissipated gray light hovered on the murky cloud-face. Marcus and James stepped aside for a moment to summon their lift, leaving Jean to talk with Francis for a minute.
“Did you have fun? Tonight,” Jean clarified.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Lots. Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Oh?” Francis didn’t answer. “What about?” Jean prompted.
“Oh, sorry. How many people there are.”
“In the world?”
“In the world,” Francis repeated, still staring at the sky. A minute later, their lift arrived. After a moment’s awkward negotiation on who should sit where, they climbed in and were off. Jean’s apartment was closer, so she was dropped off first. She pulled James out of the car with her. “We’re going to hang out some more,” she explained. “Thanks for the evening!” As the door swung closed, she turned to James. “Shall we?” she asked. Then the driver pulled away, and Francis watched the two of them go up the steps to the front entrance. She thought how happy Jean looked—and how bright she seemed, even in the gray lamplight. She turned to Marcus, who had been staring off.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Oh. Nothing.”
“Which one next?” the driver asked. “Sorry,” she added quickly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, uh… my place. 227 West Antony,” Francis replied. The driver plugged the address into her dashboard and set a route. It began to rain outside, a fine mist that dampened the street quickly. Soon they were pulling up onto the highway, running between the wet skyscrapers and merging into streams of traffic.
“What were you thinking about?” Francis repeated, forgetting he had already answered. Immediately, she regretted the error, but there was no retracting the question.
“Oh, nothing,” he said in a more distant voice.
“Are you—I mean, I’m glad for the weekend,” she commented.
“Yeah, me too.”
The driver honked at a motorcycle that had cut in front of them. She pulled over into the next lane and flipped the windshield wipers onto a higher speed. The rain was coming down just as steadily, but now in larger droplets which spattered against the car like little firecrackers set off in a chain. “Sorry, we’re going to be a bit late,” she notified them as the cars ahead slowed together, their red taillights flaring up in patterns on the windshield.
“That’s okay,” Francis replied. “What time is it, by the way?”
The driver tapped her phone to check. “Almost ten.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m sorry you have to work so late,” she added.
“It’s okay. It pays the bills.”
Francis nodded. For a while longer, they sat in silence, her behind the driver’s seat, Marcus to her right. The traffic flow resumed, and they left the CBD. “So,” the driver began, “you went on like a double date this evening?”
Francis didn’t answer—she was staring at his jawline. The question hung in the air. Eventually, they pulled up Francis’ street. She saw the tall gray building ahead, and got her purse ready, making sure she had everything. The car rolled to a stop.
“This it?”
“Yeah, thanks. Hey…” she said, turning to Marcus. He drew his eyes away from her apartment building and looked at her. “Thanks for dinner,” she offered.
He nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Do… do you want to come in?”
Immediately she was horrified at the suggestion. It had felt right to offer, but did she want it? She looked into his pale eyes as she waited for him to answer.
“No, I—no that’s okay. I had a nice time tonight,” he lied. “I hope you did too.”
She gave a weak smile and closed the door. She walked around the car and up the steps to the building entrance, not looking back. Once under the overhang in front of the door, she realized her heart was beating faster than normal. She punched in the eight digit code and pushed the door open after the lock clicked.
She sighed as she walked up the stairs and brushed her wet hair back out of her face. Pock-marks in the concrete wall faced her back before she turned halfway up to continue up the steps. After two more flights, she reached her floor and went down the hall to her room: 409.
The inside of her apartment was dark. The lights were off except for the low white LEDs beneath the cupboards above the stove, and the only other light in the room was the hazy orange glow of the city that pushed its way in through the curtains in the living area. The door swung closed behind her, and she slipped out of her shoes and dropped her purse around the corner from the entrance. Quietly, out through her roommate’s door, she could hear the strains of an old piece for the violin: Zhìvirnak, she thought. “Songs from my Childhood.” Her roommate had been practicing it a lot lately.
She began to feel more at ease. Thank goodness he had turned her down—he was not attractive, she decided. Still…
She draped her coat over the back of a stool by the kitchen counter and walked over to the window to adjust the position of an aloe plant on the sill. Then she went into the bathroom. The violin playing stopped.
Once she had washed off her makeup, she stared at herself in the mirror for a moment. The blue light of her work bathroom came back to her, and she saw that same image now. She brushed her hair back over her shoulder, thinking of Jean. Then she held it up behind her head, picturing it in a ponytail. She let it drop and began looking through the drawers below the sink. After going through all four, she went into the kitchen and found the pair of scissors in the drawer of kitchen utensils. She returned to the mirror and looked at her hair again. She held it up, gauging a good height—just a bit above her shoulders—and held the scissors open.
By the time she was finished, her roommate had begun to play again. She threw the last strands of hair into the garbage and looked at the shower briefly. She felt that she needed one, but decided against it. She went to her room and started getting ready for bed. As she was slipping into her pyjamas, Marcus’ face flashed into her mind. Then she thought about a memory from her early childhood, one she had forgotten for a long time. There had been a strange movie on, and she had asked her mom about it. She tried to focus on the memory, to remember what it had been about and what her mother had said, but the details were too cloudy. It had been something about how it was dangerous to fall in love with the wrong people, even if you couldn’t help yourself.
After changing, she stood for a moment in front of her bed—she had made it up in the morning, and the surface was flat and pristine. Her head felt greasy, and her ears thrummed with the recognition of traffic sounds that were no longer present. It’s a queen bed, she thought, or almost that big. Her mother had bought it for her when she moved into the apartment. The comforter was soft and heavy. She didn’t know how much it had cost in all.
She reached up and touched the ends of her hair with her fingers, and the memory of her mother’s explanation faded away again. Marcus’ face, the entire evening, and her roommate’s lilting violin all faded away, and she noticed for the first time her tired legs and her drooping eyelids. She crawled under the comforter, and her body pressed down into the soft mattress, forming and asserting an imprint that she was consciously aware of. It was like her shadow had pressed itself against her to seal off the day: now, and only now, it was night.
She lay for a while, unable to sleep, staring out at the empty space in front of her. Her arms were splayed out across the bed, and she noted that, if there were someone with her, there would not be room for him. She drew her arms in closer to her chest, thinking with a bit of guilt that she would give up Jean in a heartbeat to have someone fill up that space in the bed. Not Marcus—not anyone she knew—but someone else, someone she did not yet know.
She turned over in bed, and her imprint shifted to match her new position almost instantaneously. She lay awake a while longer.