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tamingthemuseTitle: Work night
Fandom: Original work
Prompt #469 – Enharmonic Interval(s)
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 849
The night was nearly as bright as the day, thanks to modern electric streetlights, but it was nothing a pinch of aramaic couldn’t cure. Anyone could become part of the shadows, really; it was nothing special, a trick within any burglar’s reach. Becoming part of the lights, that was the real talent. That’s what made me the best at my job.
That’s why they never saw me coming, and even less going away.
I let myself out of the back door into a well-lit street reasonably busy for this time of the night. People saw me, of course - no way to stay unnoticed in such a setting, but was already little more than a blur caught by the corner of their eyes. Tomorrow, when the papers will be talking about the house I’d just left, they would remember seeing something exiting the building, but they wouldn’t be able to say more. For some of them, maybe, their brain would try and complete the picture, but that didn’t matter: police would get three different descriptions of the presumed burglar, and I was ready to bet my liver that at least two of them would be male. All that panache could only be that of a man, and it was fine by me. One of the little advantages of misogyny.
It was a quick walk to the next bus stop, and then a 30-minute ride to my block. Fancy that; I was taking the bus with a freshly stolen piece of jewelry, probably worth more than the vehicle, nested inside the inner pocket of my jacket. The trick is to look casual; nobody in their right mind you would ride the bus after a burglary and act as careless as the next commuter. Whatever happens, always look like you have insignificant things to hide. Don’t mingle too much, nobody does that; take a seat on your own if you can, look out the window broodily or check your phone, but don’t look around at everyone while huddling the jacket. You’ve had a fight with your other half, or you’re waiting to hear how Aunt Margaret’s surgery went. You are not hiding a priceless pendant in your jacket.
Mr. Bolansky was on his balcony when I reached my building. He waved at me, and so did the two other men drinking colorful cocktails with him. Mr. Bolansky had been a cabaret star in his younger years, and every once in a while, friends from that time would come to visit and reminisce about the good old days. I had seen pictures; they did look like good days indeed. The artistic life had made Mr. Bolansky a very tolerant man; he never judged anyone on their ways. It was a refreshing way of seeing the world. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what I was doing for a living.
The night became really interesting when I reached the door of my apartment. Someone had broken into it, and I wasn’t talking about the door. My spells had been disturbed, and the one who had did it hadn’t tried to hide it. The signature was as clear as if it had been written on the wood with a broad black stiff.
“Hi, Joanna”, I said when I opened the door. I didn’t have to fear the intruder. Not that Joanna wasn’t dangerous - she definitely was, but if she had planned to hurt me, I would never have sensed her coming.
“You don’t seem to be surprised to see me”, she replied, not surprised either. Weren’t we a bunch of imperturbable women.
“My door has your print all over it”, I said. I put the jacket carelessly on the back of a chair, the pendant still inside. Joanna didn’t give any attention. See? I don’t care about the jacket, then there can’t be anything worthy inside.
“Consider it a warning, Mona. It was too easy to enter here. You should really use chinese quartet instead of that aramaic rubbish.”
I shook my head. “Please, Joanna, we both know it doesn’t matter. There’re nearly perfect equivalent. Different writing, same result. Plus I like the aramaic better, it goes well with the decor.”
“A sand couch is not what I would consider ‘decor’”, Joana said dryly.
“Cut the crap, Jo, and tell me why you’re in my living room.” Truth was, even if it had been a short night of work, I still wanted to call my client to book a delivery date, close the shop for the night and cuddle in my couch in front of a rerun of The Librarian.
Joanna looked embarrassed, and it didn’t go well with her overall figure. Her piercing green eyes were meant to held your look and pin you to your spot without a single touch, not to be cast down at the carpet like she was looking at it for a visual clue of what she should say next. When she looked up at me, they had almost recovered their freezing light. Almost.
“I’m in trouble, and you’re the only one you can help me.”
Fandom: Original work
Prompt #469 – Enharmonic Interval(s)
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 849
The night was nearly as bright as the day, thanks to modern electric streetlights, but it was nothing a pinch of aramaic couldn’t cure. Anyone could become part of the shadows, really; it was nothing special, a trick within any burglar’s reach. Becoming part of the lights, that was the real talent. That’s what made me the best at my job.
That’s why they never saw me coming, and even less going away.
I let myself out of the back door into a well-lit street reasonably busy for this time of the night. People saw me, of course - no way to stay unnoticed in such a setting, but was already little more than a blur caught by the corner of their eyes. Tomorrow, when the papers will be talking about the house I’d just left, they would remember seeing something exiting the building, but they wouldn’t be able to say more. For some of them, maybe, their brain would try and complete the picture, but that didn’t matter: police would get three different descriptions of the presumed burglar, and I was ready to bet my liver that at least two of them would be male. All that panache could only be that of a man, and it was fine by me. One of the little advantages of misogyny.
It was a quick walk to the next bus stop, and then a 30-minute ride to my block. Fancy that; I was taking the bus with a freshly stolen piece of jewelry, probably worth more than the vehicle, nested inside the inner pocket of my jacket. The trick is to look casual; nobody in their right mind you would ride the bus after a burglary and act as careless as the next commuter. Whatever happens, always look like you have insignificant things to hide. Don’t mingle too much, nobody does that; take a seat on your own if you can, look out the window broodily or check your phone, but don’t look around at everyone while huddling the jacket. You’ve had a fight with your other half, or you’re waiting to hear how Aunt Margaret’s surgery went. You are not hiding a priceless pendant in your jacket.
Mr. Bolansky was on his balcony when I reached my building. He waved at me, and so did the two other men drinking colorful cocktails with him. Mr. Bolansky had been a cabaret star in his younger years, and every once in a while, friends from that time would come to visit and reminisce about the good old days. I had seen pictures; they did look like good days indeed. The artistic life had made Mr. Bolansky a very tolerant man; he never judged anyone on their ways. It was a refreshing way of seeing the world. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what I was doing for a living.
The night became really interesting when I reached the door of my apartment. Someone had broken into it, and I wasn’t talking about the door. My spells had been disturbed, and the one who had did it hadn’t tried to hide it. The signature was as clear as if it had been written on the wood with a broad black stiff.
“Hi, Joanna”, I said when I opened the door. I didn’t have to fear the intruder. Not that Joanna wasn’t dangerous - she definitely was, but if she had planned to hurt me, I would never have sensed her coming.
“You don’t seem to be surprised to see me”, she replied, not surprised either. Weren’t we a bunch of imperturbable women.
“My door has your print all over it”, I said. I put the jacket carelessly on the back of a chair, the pendant still inside. Joanna didn’t give any attention. See? I don’t care about the jacket, then there can’t be anything worthy inside.
“Consider it a warning, Mona. It was too easy to enter here. You should really use chinese quartet instead of that aramaic rubbish.”
I shook my head. “Please, Joanna, we both know it doesn’t matter. There’re nearly perfect equivalent. Different writing, same result. Plus I like the aramaic better, it goes well with the decor.”
“A sand couch is not what I would consider ‘decor’”, Joana said dryly.
“Cut the crap, Jo, and tell me why you’re in my living room.” Truth was, even if it had been a short night of work, I still wanted to call my client to book a delivery date, close the shop for the night and cuddle in my couch in front of a rerun of The Librarian.
Joanna looked embarrassed, and it didn’t go well with her overall figure. Her piercing green eyes were meant to held your look and pin you to your spot without a single touch, not to be cast down at the carpet like she was looking at it for a visual clue of what she should say next. When she looked up at me, they had almost recovered their freezing light. Almost.
“I’m in trouble, and you’re the only one you can help me.”
