A fiction written in response to The Daily Post writing prompt, Power of Touch.
She was awake before Antonio Vivaldi’s Winter was blasting from her phone. She was not in any way pretentious when it comes to alarm tunes, she just doesn’t like when she’s awaken with a jolt. She sighed loudly and quietly asked herself about whether or not she should battle the traffic for a day’s work that she doesn’t enjoy? It doesn’t matter about whether or not she would battle the traffic and go to work, she would have to go to work anyway, it pays the bill, that’s all that matters.
She wished she could have stayed in the shower for another 15 minutes, but that would mean throwing her sanity away because the traffic is going to get a lot rougher than it already is. She pulled out the blue button down shirt and the black straight pants. She put on her worn out brown oxford shoes; she knew she needed a new one, but she hates going out to shop, so she’ll wait until the worn out shoes gave up entirely. Until then, that’s how she’s going to dress to work.
She sat on her sleek black imitation leather seat on her seven year old car. It became an automatic thing, she doesn’t even feel like she’s thinking anymore. Turn right on this corner, turn left on the next corner, stay on the left lane, change lane 500m from now, take the right bridge, stay on the right lane, go straight and take the bridge, make a U-turn 100m from now, turn left on the second corner and she has arrived at her destination.
She sighed and wonder how many hands have touched that fake golden door handle that has turn a shade of rusty brown. She’s not a germaphobic, but she hates the metallic smell that comes after touching the door handle. It’s not like she has other choice but to touch it, after all she has to enter her office anyway. The metallic smell on her right hand is smelling strong today, it reminded her of when she fell and bumped her two front teeth on the asphalt when she was in kindergarten; now she has two weird front teeth for eternity.
She throw herself on her worn out black seat, it let out a creaking sound. The chair must have been as old the building itself, probably it has been there since before the independence of her country. She was exaggerating, of course. She put down her hand on the corner of her table while she wait for the computer to boot, again, she felt the ashes from cigarettes left behind by her co-worker, probably from yesterday when she went home early. The small soft ashes crumbles in her hand, it reminded her of when she burned all of her stupid diary back in university. She had burned the book in her bathroom and it had taken her a good two days to clean the mess it left behind on her bathroom tile.
Things went in a daze when you’re working, whether you liked it or not. She came back home late today. It was raining, and with it came the traffic jam. She was too tired to take a shower, she knows she should, but she was just going to go straight to bed. She picked her oversized t-shirt from university and her grey sweatpants. She liked the worn out fabric, she liked how it brush against her rugged skin. She went under her blanket and were thankful for the rain. The drop of temperature had made her cheap bedsheets absorbs the cool. She like cheap bedsheets. It had this rough texture that whenever she moves her leg around against it, it calms her and helps her sleep better. It reminded her of the time when she used to sleep with her grandmother. Oh, how she missed her late grandmother so much, especially now that she’s sleeping in her room and on her bed. She felt home when she sleeps next to her grandmother, now she doesn’t know what home is.