"Yo, hey Sammy!"
Sam held in the cringe -- which took more energy than he normally had at this time of night -- and returned the greeting with a light wave. His supervisor feigned a gun and shot at him. Most of his coworkers, or at least those with enough coffee and Redbull in them, pretended to be shot or dodge or something to keep the humor alive. Sam just wanted to clock in, get to his desk, and guzzle the liter of coffee his wife had made him before hurrying off to the airport. He took a sip as he rounded a cheap metal desk into the center aisle, and winced. She had withheld the sugar again, still convinced he may have diabetes. That was thanks to some article she'd read last week that suggested the disease was hereditary. So now he was stuck with a bitter drink that tasted like coal dust mixed with milk. At least she'd made it for him.
He found his desk by the windows that exposed a dark world beyond, and immediately perked up. Amidst the off-white and black furniture and dark green carpet and walls was a splash of red. The hair was still damp, with long clumps caught within a tangle of weak curls. She hated hair dryers, since the sound drove her nuts and apparently her ears were extra sensitive to heat. He found himself smiling as he sat down next to his work-wife, Ally.
"Hey, Sammy," she greeted without looking up from her computer.
He let out a groan. "What have I done to offend you, milady? Why must you christen me with that abhorrent moniker?"
She turned toward him, her blue eyes holding nothing but contempt and disgust. "What the hell have you been watching?"
"Playing this RPG set in the middle ages. You know, back when men were men, women were property, and people got their names from whatever job they were born into. Plus, I think everybody had dysentery."
"Ah, the good ol' days. I miss having to call my boy 'Master' and waiting patiently for him to stumble drunkenly into my bedchamber. No wait, he did that last night, and I called his friend a Master Motherfucker."
He chuckled at the thought, setting his coffee aside and warming up the computer. "I take it your husband wasn't having a great day."
She took a sip of his coffee and stuck out her tongue with a disgusted sigh. His stomach fluttered when she did that, despite her efforts to look obnoxious. "Apparently, your wife was, too. What did you do to her?"
"Let her surf the net. Then nagged her about being careful and packing her suitcase properly before she went jet setting to Atlanta for another bachelorette party. She has way too many friends. So, ready for a long night?"
"With the storm brewing the way it is, it might not be so long."
"We'll see. I'm hoping for at least a couple of stoners and one UFO nut."
They worked the call center for a tech company, graveyard shift, during which only a few callers will have actual technical difficulties. The rest ran the gamut from the sleep-delirious to the outright insane, and those that were simply awake, alone, and wanting to interact with someone for a little while. Those were Ally's favorites. His were the psychopaths. As someone who was considered too passive most of the time, his outlet was talking the crazies through their out-of-body experiences. And yes, that has happened more than once.
As he settled in, getting his headset on and the volume adjusted, he felt eyes on him and glanced around. Several of the guys turned away quickly, grumbling about something.
"Saved your ass, so you owe me," said Ally. "Your chair is that one."
She pointed to the next desk over, and he immediately noticed the fabric of the seat was darker than the rest. Carefully, he poked it and felt it squish. The cushion was soaked. "April Fools, right. Doesn't this count more as bullying than pranking?"
She shrugged, her pink-glossed lips curling in a little smirk. "At least they know not to prank me."
He smiled at the memory. Last year, a couple of women spiked all of the water jugs and coffee pots with some kind of mint syrup. It was so strong that anyone who drank any smelled like they were chewing the leaves as they talked. Ally noticed it before even taking a sip, let her coffee cool, then walked toward the hall with the restroom. As she passed the culprits, she "accidently" tripped and spilled the lukewarm, minty coffee all over them. And since she was so small and innocent looking, she just pretended to get teary-eyed when the girls snapped at her, prompting the boss and several men to take her side. Since then, everyone had been nervous to so much as tell a joke in her presence.
"I completely forgot it was the first. I wanted to get you this year, but couldn't think of anything."
"Please, not like I've ever fallen for any kind of prank. Nothing surprises me, so it'd have been a wasted effort. Ah, got my first date," she said. A blue warning came onto her screen, signaling an incoming call. "Time for business."
He watched her answer the phone, sipped his coffee, and readied for work.
*****
At hour seven in her eight-hour shift, Ally was talking to a man whose scratchy voice pegged him between twenty and fifty years of age, guiding him through making a banana-peanut-butter sandwich. Why, she had forgotten the reason thirty minutes ago. She thought he had accidently deleted a file necessary to run the OS on the tablet he was using, but her mind was too frayed to care anymore. Eventually, the client had taken a bite, discovered that it was, in fact, gloriously delicious as she'd promised, and gave her a glowing review. She took off her headset and leaned back in her chair for a wide stretch. Only then did she notice a fundamental problem with wearing a white t-shirt and no bra. After oversleeping and ducking into the shower for a quick rinse, she'd scrambled to find her underwear, discovering that Darren -- the husband currently sentenced to the doghouse -- had taken her clothes to the Laundromat. She had no bras left, and had rushed out anyway. Now, with the chill of the AC, her nipples poked through, and her posture was basically advertising her breasts. She glanced over and caught Sammy stealing a peek. Men.
Not that there was much to gawk at. She was the definition of petite, most of her coworkers mistaking her for fresh out of high school. She was one of the few here with an honest-to-goodness college degree, not that it was of much use. Call center was her best opportunity thus far in the six months since graduating. It wasn't worth dwelling on. Sammy had an English degree two years old now, and he was still struggling to find a career.
The poor guy had bags under his eyes, but otherwise looked pretty good. For someone bordering on hipster territory, at least. His bangs were slicked back, his hair full on top to the point of looking almost spiky, the gray mixing in with the black giving him an extra air of maturity. He was even trying to grow a goatee, currently not much more than a shadow. Judging by how his own shirt was starting to look small, the workout routine his brother had forced him on was taking effect, as was the diet his wife made him adhere to. But there was stress in his soft brown eyes, which he tried to hide from her. She knew about Milena wanting kids, and while this was a steady enough job for a family, it was also a dead-end one. The poor guy needed a vacation, maybe a guys' getaway. She'd ask Darren about arranging it.
He looked over again. "Aren't your legs throbbing? You've been like that for hours."
She usually sat cross-legged, the twigs stuck to her hips curled up on the chair. One of the perks of being so small was that even these cheap seats better fit for an elementary school lab were easy to curl up on for her.
