Writing Warm Ups

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I met him on the stairs

The end of the day is always a mass rush, colleagues pushing past each other to see who could make it out of those big glass doors first. The air is abuzz with the sound of high heels clacking against the marble, the rustle of fabric and conversations that became a incoherent jumble of words to the ears of outsiders.

It's never changed. Day after day it was still the same; the same mad rush. It's a daily routine I try my hardest to avoid, hanging back in my office, sorting the the paperwork on my desk or making a last minute phone call to client.

I thought that day would be the same, the same boring shit. No variations. Ftae does like to jumble up the things you know, once I a while.

The clock had just ticked over to five o'clock and the people around me leapt from their seats, like programmed robots; draining the dregs of coffee from their mugs and grabbing their coats from the stand.

“It's five, you coming?” Sarah asked me, stopping in the doorway, like she did every day.

“I'm just going to finish this, and then I'll be down.” I said, indicating the contract in front of me.

It's funny what a difference fifteen minutes make. The corridors were empty, the clacking of my own heels being the only sound reverberating off of the walls. I didn't think I'd meet anyone, usually it's only me still wandering the halls at five fifteen, but as I rounded the corner there he was; crouched low on the steps, running gloved fingers across the ledge.


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