The start of all ends (A short)

She stares infront of her computer. She seem not to notice the mosquito she hit with a Salinger book earlier pixellating in red and green. Somewhere in between the heaps of paper, the ivy league hottie becomes a corporate whore.

Her slanting, feminine, convent-school handwriting sublimed by the Cathechism of the Italian/Vatican faith were buried under stress, under the earth and dirt and short bond papers. It was ridiculous to exhume it. It was buried until the paper have become soft and folded like the cloth, and useless. Her hands had tapped and something came out in the small white screen. She became amused and delighted and has forgotten her passionate love affair with her handwritings.

Home is 20,000 miles away. But for now, the red, satin-lined sofa 2 meters behind her qualified as home. Home is not where her heart is. There is a damp smell of freshly brewed Cafe Americano roaming the room. Her kidneys smelled it too. It somehow mixed with her blood.

When did it start, she doesn't know. One thing led to another. One minute she was freshly baked out into the real world then the next thing she knew she became a very young associate. It was a brisk winding up and closing shop.

It was already 5AM. She had realized that before deciding on a quick nap. She began having memories that she doesn't have any right to remember. The boy he had seen last week in an Australian coffee shop, was he the one? The one with a fahion victim for a girlfriend? She felt like a vine snaking up a lamp post. Touching here. There. All over. And she was awoken by a light tap over her shoulders.

Coffee, Ma'am? she asks.

And the cycle goes on.

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