How I hate being wrong. She stares at her screen and outside her barred and shuttered window, little pink flowers grow.
She had heard that they were cherry blossoms, loved in Japan for their ethereal beauty and another quality. Dangling precariously from their slender stalks, they are ‘Here one minute/Gone the next.’ Transition. Beauty. Impermanence. There is a lesson to it all, only if she could see it.
Her moist eyes switched back to the screen. Much of what she was tied up in there and there was one last thing she had to so before she left for the day. The walls were closing around her, and the silence was an oppressive blanket. She thought she heard a whisper, but it was the wind, urging her to hurry.
The corridor was dark, and along a row of identically cubicles, only hers was active. Another glance she threw to the trees as her hands continued typing, confident of making no mistakes. The soft pale green leaves, young and fresh and totally unable to fend for themselves reached longingly towards the cherry blossom that laughed and flirted.
It would not stay long now, soon a gust of wind would come and blow those light faced creatures away, and the leaves, being what they are would be none the worse for the loos. They would grow strong and dark and would continue their function of old age, who had ever heard of leaves pining away?
But the blossoms died everyday, and she knew it.
One wayward lock tugged free from the knot of the hair and drifted slowly to her face. The dying rays of sunlight caught it at an angle and made the brown hair appear reddish. She did not notice. Absently, she tucked the strands behind her eyes as her hands stayed busy at the keyboard.
Again she looked around, her eyes darting this way and that, looking for a reason to stop, but there was no one and nothing, only her feeling uncomfortable. There was something that bored a hole into her back, and she felt she was being watched. A guilty conscience, she was sure. She completed her typing waited while the spellcheck pointed out numerous errors. That was because she always switched letters around when she wrote… but she did hate being wronged. The tips of her fingers beat an impatient tune on the table as she waited, and then she stopped. She wanted, and needed the silence though it unnerved her.
Her sun tanned hand moved with the quick grace of long practice to pick up the CD that popped out of the drive. She cocked it in her hand, the index finger through the central hole and the thumb on the rim of the slim cylinder, the shiny reflective surface tucked in towards her. She pushed her chair back and it rolled obediently. Her other hand reached for her bag, and she put the disc in with a lot less concern that what she should have had.
She glanced around the cubicle, ensuring that there was nothing there that could incriminate her. There wasn’t. With a firm step and a “clip-clop” every time her shoe heel came in contact with the marble flooring she left, scurrying outside the building at last. As she left, it seemed to her that something watched. She stepped under the tree outside her window, on her way to leaving forever, and there was the evening breeze again. And cherry blossoms danced around her all the way out.