I walked over to the artistically curving brass arm-chair, thinking I might do some work. But that was no good: before mounting the leather saddle, I looked over at the tethered smartphone and reviewed the day’s calendar. Empty day, only because everything had been emptied for me. Which, in turn, built up all this nervous energy inside me. I strode briskly from the workstation and strolled around the periphery of my desk, then back again. I flexed my fingers, shook out my hands, practiced deep breathing as I walked along. Finally I stopped in my tracks, stopping in front of the wide black wool skirt, and yelled up to the sky where Ceci resided: “Could you please knock off that pacing? You’re driving me crazy!”
She looked down at me, over her folded arms. The upper half of her was wrapped in a spruce, green velvet jacket; everything reaching to the ground was black wool skirt, black tights, matte black boots. Striking effect piled upon tasteful understatement, and it wasn’t like I didn’t appreciate it, but this wasn’t the time. “I’m not even moving a muscle, Mister Man,” she said with a tone much lighter than her expression. “You’re the one running laps, wearing a groove in the artificial wood-tone vinyl finish. Feeling a little antsy?”
“Pun not intended, I’m sure,” I grumbled, stalking over to boot at an extra large paperclip.
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