revele
We have a Monday morning meeting that the whole company attends, but because of the long weekend, it was on today instead. Nearly everyone gets into the office sometime before nine and checks their email, the news, etc, first. Then at some point we traipse off to the boardroom and sit facing the big screen, waiting for one of the bosses to start the meeting and go over our schedules for the week.
Design is recapped first. Shell greets everyone, pleasantries are exchanged; smiles and commiserations about being back at work. The senior designer is briefed on his main task for the week, a new client, big job, high profile, we're all excited. Shell is tracking through the design schedule briefly for next week, seeing what's coming up, if anything needs to be moved around, and then our hearts stop when Daniel blurts out, "Fuckkk!" and wipes his nose on his sleeve, muffling the rest of his wounded noise. I can't see him properly because he was first into the room and he's sitting at the front. He makes a messy, grieving sob sound and I can see his hand tight in a fist on his lap. Shell says, "Daniel?"
He sob-hiccups, drunkenly, speaking way too loud - "I'm sorryy!" - and he tries to get up and make his way out of the room. He bangs his hip against the table and hits his ankle on a chair leg, low-groans, "Fuckkk", and lies down on the floor. He seems too tired to cry or talk. He's got red eyes and flushed cheeks. Jais is probably his closest friend here; she helps him up and out to the bathroom, and I stupidly, belatedly twig that he hasn't been home from his last-night. Wine and cigarettes and drama, I guess.
Shell knows we don't have much time, we're all booked solid this month and the meeting can't go overtime. She directs us back to the screen. Tom's file is up next and she begins the prioritized summary, but he interrupts her. "I'm going to need some time off." This is bizarre because he just took annual leave last month. He's got a serious tone and an ashen expression, as when he's ready for confrontation. He's no good at confrontation. Shell almost stammers, and pauses, and looks at him, fiercely. He clenches his jaw, prepared.
"This isn't the best time," she says, stating the obvious and disguising that she's affronted. "Someone I know's been murdered," he says, knowing it'll shock us all into silence and respect. The accumulative ridiculousness of the morning bursts inside my head and, desperately embarrassed, I can't stop giggling at everything. The meeting ends early.
Design is recapped first. Shell greets everyone, pleasantries are exchanged; smiles and commiserations about being back at work. The senior designer is briefed on his main task for the week, a new client, big job, high profile, we're all excited. Shell is tracking through the design schedule briefly for next week, seeing what's coming up, if anything needs to be moved around, and then our hearts stop when Daniel blurts out, "Fuckkk!" and wipes his nose on his sleeve, muffling the rest of his wounded noise. I can't see him properly because he was first into the room and he's sitting at the front. He makes a messy, grieving sob sound and I can see his hand tight in a fist on his lap. Shell says, "Daniel?"
He sob-hiccups, drunkenly, speaking way too loud - "I'm sorryy!" - and he tries to get up and make his way out of the room. He bangs his hip against the table and hits his ankle on a chair leg, low-groans, "Fuckkk", and lies down on the floor. He seems too tired to cry or talk. He's got red eyes and flushed cheeks. Jais is probably his closest friend here; she helps him up and out to the bathroom, and I stupidly, belatedly twig that he hasn't been home from his last-night. Wine and cigarettes and drama, I guess.
Shell knows we don't have much time, we're all booked solid this month and the meeting can't go overtime. She directs us back to the screen. Tom's file is up next and she begins the prioritized summary, but he interrupts her. "I'm going to need some time off." This is bizarre because he just took annual leave last month. He's got a serious tone and an ashen expression, as when he's ready for confrontation. He's no good at confrontation. Shell almost stammers, and pauses, and looks at him, fiercely. He clenches his jaw, prepared.
"This isn't the best time," she says, stating the obvious and disguising that she's affronted. "Someone I know's been murdered," he says, knowing it'll shock us all into silence and respect. The accumulative ridiculousness of the morning bursts inside my head and, desperately embarrassed, I can't stop giggling at everything. The meeting ends early.