Work day fled with meetings, reports, education, but when 5pm came, all her colleagues packed up and headed home to their spouses, kids, girlfriends or boyfriends. Ziya scanned the wall-less office floor, each desk balancing a flat monitor, their black screens staring, mocking. The cleaning staff wordlessly reached under the desks, emptied waste baskets and drifted through the open floor. Ziya banged her laptop shut, grabbed her bag and walked to her hotel. Back in the grand lobby, instead of heading to the elevators, she decided to hop into the pub.
Settling in a dark corner of the cozy pub, she ordered a beer and fish and chips and sunk into the lush armchair. She looked around the room noticing a few seats dotted with people, mostly young professionals enjoying the happy hour. A group of nine men and women occupied a table in the center of the room, their rambunctious laughter echoing in the small space. Behind them on the far wall, a screen hung from the ceiling turned to the sports channel. Ziya watched the show intently and tried to follow the poker game that was in session. After observing the serious faces of the players, she became bored and decided to find other forms entertainment.
Taking a sip of her dark, foamy beer, she reached in her bag for the Economist stuffed in it for the air journey. In the dim light of the pub, she strained to read the small print, bringing the magazine closer to her face as she picked on her fries and forked the fish from under the magazine. Lost in an article on a new “ID system in India”, she did not notice a young man enter the pub, glance at her hidden face, but then move on. Feeling a sudden breeze wisp through her hair, she put down the magazine and looked up towards the empty doorway.
to be continued...
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