GWENETH
My desk looks like it's about to kill me.
Files are stacked so high they're threatening to avalanche onto the floor, onto me, onto everything.
My eyes are glued to my glowing computer screen. My fingers are flying over the keyboard. At some point they go numb and sweaty, so I have to stop and press them flat against my cotton skirt just to dry them. I blow out my cheeks.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I reach for the mug next to my keyboard for coffee, only to find it empty.
I sigh.
This day has been anything but smooth. The whole week has. My eyes burn. My head is splitting from a migraine, my feet ache from running around gathering materials for back-to-back meetings, and my ears are still ringing from the thousand calls I took from disgruntled shareholders who cursed me out like I was the one who steered Bill and Julie's Co. into bankruptcy.
All I want right now is a cold shower, a cup of instant ramen, and my bed. The warm, safe feeling of my tiny apartment.
I glance up on my way to the pantry. Every other desk is empty. They have been empty since 7 p.m. — normal closing time for everyone else.
Everyone else, not me. I never leave on time. I always stay behind to do work that wasn't even assigned to me in the first place.
It's 9 p.m. Everyone else is home, living their lives. I'm still here, working like a monster on a task that was supposed to be the Directorate Manager's. Alone.
His exact words were: "You're a hardworking employee, Gweneth. You're the only one I can trust with this."
Translation: If anything goes wrong, it's catastrophically my fault. I'll get chewed out by the executives. If it goes right, he takes all the credit. My effort will be washed away like water under a bridge.
So I have to push through the fatigue and pay attention to every single paper — shredding the ones with evidence of mismanagement and embezzlement by the top executives. Cleaning the slate before the company gets taken over by a bigger one.
No one could go through all these files, shred them, and create new ones in three days, let alone a few hours.
No one but me.
I'm a working machine. All my colleagues know it. They even nicknamed me "AlphaGo."
It's not a compliment. It's a cover-up word for pushover. My efficiency is my biggest strength and my biggest weakness.
I'm the first to clock in and the last to clock out. My workload is heavier than any other employee or executive at Bill and Julie's Co. Most times, I don't mind. I happily do other people's work even when it's not my job.
My certifications are laughable by even the smallest company's standards. It was pure luck and a miracle that I landed a job at the renowned Bill and Julie's Co. I can't compare to my colleagues who graduated from prestigious universities, so I work twice as hard. I use efficiency and hard work to make up for my unimpressive resume.
I kept that up for three years, all so I could one day be promoted to manager. And that day finally came.
I got the promotion. Then, two weeks later, disaster struck. Now I'm at risk of being laid off, at the mercy of whatever bimbo is coming to take over as CEO.
And I still can't say no.
I don't say no because I'm quiet and helpful. I like being helpful. I'm the kind of woman who only lashes out inside her head where no one can hear her. I volunteer to do things against my own will, then regret it the second the words leave my mouth. I just can't help it. It's in my nature.
I was the kid who cleaned the library and arranged books that other students scattered. I built an image of being helpful and reliable wherever I went. It's a good thing, but most people take it for granted — like the Directorate Manager and some of my colleagues.
Reinvigorated by the coffee, I get back to work as soon as my finger cramps ease up. I try not to think about the fact that I'm the only employee left in this entire 24-floor building.
Finally!
Relief washes over me as I shred the last batch of files. I arrange the new, modified files into folders and put them away.
I can go home at last.
Shit. It's a few minutes past 11 p.m! A few more minutes and it'll be midnight. And I still have to come in early tomorrow to prepare for a shareholders' meeting.
Good fucking going, Gweneth. I sigh, feeling so annoyed with myself.
Luckily, I do not need to bother with a pricey cab fare at this hour. My fiancé lives close by now. His place is just a short trek from work.
*****
"Why do there have to be so many stairs?" I mutter languidly as I trudge up to Neil's apartment.
I can't wait to recharge in his big, warm hug and his smothering kisses. I'm not that tired. We could end up dancing on each other all night long. I smile at my own silly, naughty thought.
I don't get like this often. I'm touch-starved. I miss Neil's touch. I miss his scent and the feel of him inside me. Come to think of it, I don't really remember the last time we had each other. All thanks to our conflicting work schedules.
That would soon cease to be a problem once we get married. I blush. The thought giving me an energy boost.
I reach his door and type in the passcode — my birthday. I push it open.
"Sugarplum, where are you—"
The words to announce myself as well as the endearment die on my tongue as my whole body freezes at the sight on the couch.