911, What's Your Emergency?

As dawn breaks, I take a moment to watch the world pass by. A gentle fog accompanies the Earth, almost like a soft blanket, enveloping the grass in warmth. Beyond these four walls of chaos lays serenity. The leaves turn and transform an emerald green to an Autumn yellow. The soft fall colours dance around couples, bringing warmth to their hearts and a tangle in their hands.
Civilisation feels so far from where I’m sat, perched on an office chair within a home of complete misery.
I’ve never found myself able to enjoy seeing a smile on someone’s face. My own sister brought her son into the world 2 days beforehand, and her smile has never ceased to haunt me since. It’ll soon change into grief and misery.
Nobody stays happy forever.
And that’s where I come into the equation.
Being a 911 operator is miserable. As soon as you step inside of the office, the stench of despair grabs at you. It’s unavoidable. The first thing that happens when you sit down is your neighbouring slave turning to you, talking about the screams heard on the other line just a few minutes before you arrived. They talk about a murder, or a rape case. It’s daunting.
It sounds ridiculous but, one day I’d like to answer the phone to someone asking how my day is going.
I laugh cynically to myself.
My partner, Officer Riggs, turns to look at me quizzically. I shrug at his confusion, muttering something ludicrous about how I was ‘remembering something that happened last week. You know. Nostalgia.’ His raised eyebrow never faltered, but he returned to his computer without questioning me. I ignore his sarcastic murmur and turn to stare at the plants strewn decoratively across the windowsill. It’s weird to see something so gorgeous bloom in a place riddled with sadness. Almost like a defiant little kid against his parents. Like a ‘fuck you, I’ll do what I want.’
I hold back the wave of nostalgia. I wouldn’t want to taint good memories with the misery of this place.I turn to look at my answering machine, then to my watch to check the time.
5 minutes and 37 seconds.
‘Huh.’ I say aloud.
‘What?’ Riggs unglues his eyes from the computer and gives me that same curious look.
‘5 minutes. That’s the longest I’ve had without a call.’
‘Don’t jinx it, Iero. That’s a blessing around here.’
I chuckle at that. It’s a strange sound to hear in a place like this. Foreign, almost.
I ask him to watch my post whilst I grab us 2 coffees from the machine nearby.
‘Don’t forget the fucking sugar. I’ve no idea how you can drink that shit black.’ I hear him call out to me.
‘Careful, or I’ll piss in it, too.’ I retort.
Pleased with his disgusted silence, I begin filling the cups.
I take a spare cup and water the nearby plants. I’ve no idea when they were last hydrated, but a little extra couldn’t hurt.
A man outside catches my attention. A scarf is neatly wrapped around his neck, covering the bottom of his face. Understandably, though. It was pretty damn cold outside. A long trench coat is draped over his shoulders as he takes shelter under a nearby bus stop, the harsh wind beating at the windows surrounding the frame of the structure. Under his coat he fashions a suit, his blazer seemingly woven from a dark, genuine Irish tweed.
The way he carries himself fascinates me. He rests with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a lit cigarette carefully to his lips. The smoke is never pushed. He always allows it to leave his mouth of it’s own accord. Clearly in no rush.
A bus pulls up beside the shelter, and he, with obvious disdain, flicks his cigarette to the floor and crushes it under his foot.
Before he gets onto the bus, though, he turns to look at me. He couldn’t possibly be looking at anybody else. I’m only one floor above the ground and yet, I can feel his gaze all over me.
Tingling, burning.
He raises his left hand and waves to me. Endearingly, it seems. Then, he again turns and climbs onto the bus.
I stay staring at the spot where he stood for a little while. It’s daunting, almost. To see that spot empty, I mean.
The way he stood there. His aura. It made it seem as if it was his acclaimed spot, personally. Nobody else would look quite right there to me.
I only stop staring when the coffee begins to overflow. At that point, I switch the machine off and grab a tissue to clean off the excess.
Of course Riggs notices, and is the first to jump to a snarky comment.
‘You’re losing it, Iero. Fuckin’ weirdo.’
‘Golden shower straight in your damn cup. Don’t fuck with me.’
I walk over to our desk and put his coffee down in front of him, slumping down into my chair afterwards.
I try to think of the man again. Inevitably, it seems. I knew I was going to at some point. His hands, his lips, the burning of his eyes. His slender fingers and the ever so slight upturn of his smile. It was cheeky, to me, at least. It’s been a long while since a man has been so openly flirtatious with me. That thought alone was enough to dust a blush across my cheeks.
A hand clambers down and thuds upon my shoulder, the force knocking sweet thoughts out of my head like the first crack of lightening on a dark night.
‘You’re on the late shift tonight, Iero.’ My boss's voice rings behind me.
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’ I spin in my chair and look at him, a mix of pleading and oh-god-get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here on my face. ‘I was supposed to go and meet my baby nephew tonight, man.’
‘It’s 100$ extra. Buy her a baby grow in apology or something.’ With that said, he walks back to his office and slams the door shut. I go to drop my head onto the table and let out a grunt of frustration, but the phone rings just before I can.
Riggs raises an eyebrow, but not quizzically this time. Almost with sympathy. Fake, mocking sympathy, obviously.
I flip him the finger with a feigned smile before I answer the distress call.
‘911, what’s your emergency?’

Notes

hello!
new story, just because i've chugged five coffees and i'm on a writing spree.
con-crit is welcome!
x