CROSSED PATHS

It is noon. Sunbeams seethe through the blinds left half open. They say it is to let the light in, yet all it seems to do is reveal the dust and clutter that gathers in the office. Although it is almost missed by the naked eye, someone still seems to be bothered by it.

“Atchoo!”

A sneeze rips through the room, amidst the clacking of typewriters and tearing of pages for this week’s issue.

“Ethan! Can you tell Mr. Hoffman to bring a feather duster in here? I like digging up dirt as much as the rest of you, but dust? The things trying to kill my sinuses!”

She rubs her nose and sneezes again. Her brunette hair slowly comes down from her high ponytail strand by strand as her sneezes continue.

“Tough luck, Austine. If your lucky, the dust might just kill you first before the widow you exploited for a saucy story does.”

The man snickers as he dips into his pocket and hands her a handkerchief with the initials "E.S." on the bottom left. He looked clean-shaven and his eyes a tinge of green, a perfect contrast to his dark hair with strands of white.

“I know she killed her husband! I got a gut feeling about these kinds of things.” She grabs the napkin from his hand and proceeds to blow her nose. A look of disgust and bemusement falls on the man's face at the sight of her snot.

“Take advantage of that gut feeling before someone pulls your guts right out of you.”

As they bantered, the head office door swung open with a loud thud. A woman with dark hair in all black marches outside with tears streaming down her grief-stricken face.

“How dare you!” She points a finger at the woman on the desk. “I loved Abe. He's been the only man I ever laid with. We've been married for three years, the happiest I've ever been in all my life!”

“Happier than the moment you cashed in that sweet life insurance?

Lady, he was in his seventies with heart problems and you're in your twenties with the curves of an hourglass. Clearly, his time was up when he crossed paths with you.”

“You bitch!”

The woman storms off with a huff.

“Some people can't handle the truth!” Austine raises her hands and stretches.

“You mean your truth?” Ethan interjects.

“Same thing.”

Just then, a man steps out of the office. He's dressed in a worn-out three-piece suit with lines accentuating his already lengthy legs. His years are etched on his head and a five o'clock shadow covers his jaw. He inspects the latches on the door. One of the rusty screws came loose. The woman who walked out seemed to have ripped the door off its hinges.

“Great. A screw loose.”

“I think the other screw just ran off, Mr. Hoffman.”

Austine nudged Ethan and they burst out in laughter.

“You couldn't have bothered the woman a week after the funeral?”

The man sighs as he tries to put back the screw on the hinge with his nail.

“It was the most opportune time!”

“We have different ideas when it comes to the right time then. For example, I don’t think it’s the right time to interview a widow on the day of her husband's funeral.”

He then rubs the temples of his head." Damn it, I know you're persistent and I admire you for it, Az. But can you please lay off the grieving next time?”

“Fine. If she did kill him though, I get dibs on the next case.”

“Nice try. No more interviewing.”

The man walks inside his office and shuts the door gently behind him. However, the door teeters off the side and hangs by the hinges on the bottom. A small gaping hole on the door frame provides a perfect view into his office as he sits and stares straight at Austine.

“That man is lucky his articles sell like hotcakes or I would've had to file for bankruptcy from all the cases against him.”

He grumbles under his breath. With a pen in hand, he signs off on another paycheck entitled to the Rebel magazine’s lawyer, Ethan Swerling.

“Hey Ethan, come in here and get your cheque!”

Ethan then stands up from his desk and winks at Austine before he enters the office.