Day 1 - Emilee [WIP]
Pale and slender hands gently grasp a shimmering object hovering it over the (pardon my ego) flawlessly crafted latte I had brewed a minute and half ago (and counting). Rose gold (PANTONE 7605 C? PANTONE 7612 U?). The metallic hue matched the young woman's perfectly painted nails (How does anyone type with such claws?). I look down at my own. Peeking from the cuffs of my new sweater (OMOCAT), their colourless tips were unevenly bit, much like the edges of the (âsugar freeâ) banana blueberry muffin they held. The rectangular device tilted to my right. Pause. My left. A little lower now. Pause. A little higher. Pause. Sigh. I set down the last of the clean mugs and glanced once more at the slightly cracked face of my wrist watch (I should return it to Dan soon). Another minute had passed (and still counting (though the time was probably inaccurate)). Then, the synthesized sound of a bird's chirp (huh; speak of the devil, or so they say (or more like thought of the devil) (Devil?))). My breath momentarily caught in my pharynx, but I (reluctantly thought) would check the text later. Not now (even though I just clocked in for my break). Not around such a crowd (even if I had cordoned myself off into the corner and mostly obscured by the cherry wood counter (but I know where each security camera is hidden) (I needed to get home first (ugh; time will feel to move at an excruciatingly slow pace)))). Not using such insecure wifi (the signal's terrible anyway to download the file(s?) (Really, where is this nonexistent IT? (Iris wonât even let me at least try to troubleshoot))). Fingernails were tapping (How does anyone type with such claws?), glistening like jewels against a shaft of peak afternoon light (oddly, there was no lunch rush today), dancing (Dancing?) in the process of (certainly) composing a clever (Really?) comment that (certainly) concluded with a couple of hashtags to accompany the photograph of her drink (Iâm flattered, but, too bad the tendrils of the rosetta were already dissipating (I couldn't see, but more than five minutes had already past)). In a world facilitated by faceless machines itâs a luxury to get a hand-brewed cup of joe ((as they say) (sometimes, Iâm not sure if I feel grateful for this job (god, how can these kids afford to drink here?))). The addicting aroma of freshly pulled espresso circulated throughout the open, yet crowded space (I inhale once more (surrounded by this stuff for more than five hours a day, I get more than enough of a fix)). More screens of varying sizes hovering more faces (some of which look exhausted (bored?) (mostly the college kids); some are grinning (again, mostly the college kids (the ones procrastinating I mean (ugh; what are they using our connection for (I donât have the privilege right to know)))). Surrounded by reclaimed brick and hanging collections of Edison bulbs, these countless patrons (okay; I think there were 21 people (wait, somebody just walked in) in the cafe), through an unorchestrated dance of swipes, taps and other fine gestures of the digits, were indiscriminately sharing (edited) bits of their insignificant life to the World Wide Web (personally, I couldn't find significance in digitally immortalizing the memory of my caffeinated drink). A constant stream of chatter here and there, but most of the conversation is taking place online (this is today's coffee culture, I suppose). And we can all hear it. Read it. Analyze it. Expose it. (I shake my head) I hesitantly reach for the object I've grown to rely on, slowly pull it out (oops; dropped a gum wrapper (I pick it up of course)) of the home itâs made in my denim pocket and turn it on. Earlier this morning, I was re-reading (again) a conversation that had been discontinued a month and six days ago (Why was I counting?). Sigh. I was the one who had the final word. (What the?) My eyes widen. Sixteen new messages, maybe seven of which I was expecting from three different people. God, this anticipation (uh-oh; colleagueâs looking at me (Iâm probably doing that little bounce I apparently do when Iâm anxious (Excited maybe?))). I pop the rest of the (deliciously moist) muffin into my mouth (and nope; hadnât even snapped a photo first) and tuck dark strands of hair behind my ear. (Definitely) Later. Not with this chatter. For now, I was craving for a different kind of noise. But before I engaged in my usual course of wordless music, I briefly wondered (like I do every now and then (sometimes in amusement; sometimes in alarm)): What if one of those pictures was his/hers?















