04_Ceilings, Post-Its, and Hostages

It was only 4:45pm but the sun was already setting. I daydreamed about getting up and leaving the office as I looked out of the windows. Maybe I’ll take the longer route home today and walk by the canal; it always cheers me up and I get my steps in.

But…it’s also Thursday.

I was waiting for Kevin to finish reading through his notes to go through today’s task and briefings. We’d made good progress today, running through the project brief and requirements and the office filing systems. Now, we were wrapping up for the day, reviewing tasks for tomorrow morning and catching any last questions.

We were sitting together at my desk and I watched him flick through his pages of notes to consolidate any other questions. His handwriting was… inconsistent at best, each letter was sized differently and engaging in its own dance but forced to hold hands with each other. The force with which he wrote made the paper curl in on itself; I’m sure if I ran my fingers along the back of the pages, it would feel like braille.

He reads so slowly.

My admiration for his thoroughness was beginning to fray a little; his finger slid across the page under the word he was reading so I could observe his pace. I tried not to let my frustration build with no avail.

Why are you taking so long? Aren’t these your notes? Do you not know what you’ve written?

An egg of resentment started to hatch in my chest and that involuntary smile that I’d often loathed was beginning to falter, betraying my inner thoughts. A cruel little monster with dark claws and an even darker voice had woken up now and it whispers horrid things that were both tempting but abhorrent.

Tell him he is reading too slowly and is wasting your life. What an idiot. Who isn’t able to read their own handwriting? Tell him or I will.

I am appalled by my own thoughts. No, absolutely not. Don’t be so horrid. Sometimes we struggle too, he just needs some time. Why do you have to be so horrible?

I wondered what my face looked like while my insides were warring with themselves. Kevin’s finger stopped at a word that looked more like scribble than anything coherent. His focus was commendable and I could see the little cogs in his head ticking, trying to decipher what he wrote just 15 minutes ago.

Fine, then ask him if he needs any help, because honestly? We cannot be sitting here all day. We have already been here for 25 minutes, and the last 5 minutes at least, has just been watching him read. We have things to do. People to see. Ask him. Or I will.

I have ripped a sizeable piece of skin off my thumb and the exposed air prickles the glistening flesh underneath. A little droplet of blood welled to the surface; my rage embodied, seeping from under my skin and composure.

“Kevin- did you have any questions or… need any help?”

He didn’t even look up, still fully concentrating on the word when he replied, “No… I just- can’t read my own handwriting.” When he did look up, there was no trace of embarrassment, just that same expectation as when I first met him. “What did you say about Building Control? It starts with an A and a…D?”

“Oh, uh- Building Control? A and D? Maybe…Approved Documents?” I looked at the scribble. “I think you wrote Approved Documents here.”

I reexplained almost everything we had spoken about during the afternoon and we translated a dozen more illegible scribbles from his notes. In hoping to ease his struggles, I provided a set of my own diagrams and notes on a series of post-its of all different sizes and colours. He replied enthusiastically even if somewhat nonsensically to my teachings, I just really hoped my messages got through to him.

His pages looked ever so beautiful now; covered in multi-coloured scribbles, diagrams and sketches by both his hand and mine. Leonardo da Vinci, eat your heart out. By the end, he lifted his head with what seemed to be a satisfied look to admire his handy work and my multitude of post-it notes. I smiled too, we have a happy customer it seems.

I wanted to question if his additional notations were even going to be helpful since they were equally as unintelligible as their predecessors but he had been so confident in saying ‘yes’ and ‘uh huh’ when we were talking that I brushed the thought aside. He went back to his own desk to leave me to gather my own thoughts and tidy my life.

How was it already 5:45pm? That really cost me a whole hour?! I still had so much to do but… never mind. At least we helped someone today. Hopefully.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the usual suspect pub-enjoyers gathering and waving to get my attention. I made a mental note: I’ll think about it.

Wednesday drinking into a Thursday pub session, someone is thirsty aren’t they?

As I turned to grab my bag from the floor, Kevin was by my desk again. Despite being completely dressed and packed to leave, he hovered around. I straightened myself up to face him, still smiling from earlier’s victory over Building Regulations and contractual relationships.

“Hi Kevin, how can I help?” something in my chest felt warm, “did you need something?”

“Huh? No, I came over for a chat, that’s all.”

Oh?

“Oh, fair enough. Yeah- sure. I was just packing up. How are you? Are you going to the pub?”

“I am good thank you and…maybe. Are you going? Do you guys go like, every day after work?”

“Every day?! No no no. Thursday is pub day when everyone goes. Not every day, what do you take me for? A drunk?”

Yes.

“Yes, of course, not every day.” He chucked as he shuffled on his feet. “I can’t today but maybe I’ll come next week? Thursdays right?”

“Mmhmm.”

And with that, a silence settles between us like a falling sheet. I had unknowingly brought my thumb back to my mouth again. There was nothing left to rip away, and the wound from earlier stung as I nipped at it. I didn’t know what to say or what he wanted. Eye contact was starting to be uncomfortable so I resumed tidying and packing my bag.

Why are you just standing there? What do you want from me?

He broke the silence first.

“I saw you on LinkedIn before I joined today. You are on the company profile.”

I froze for a moment, a little taken aback. I didn’t think anyone would care to know let alone bring it up to me.

“You… looked me up?”

“Yes— for research. It's always good to know about your place of employment before working there.” His tone was completely serious, almost lecturing. “You did your Master’s in Scotland, right? From the Mackintosh?

“Yeah, I did. How about you? Where did you do your Bachelor’s and Master’s?”

“I did my Bachelor’s in Kent. Masters in Glasgow also. University of Strathclyde. I think I was in the year below you? You graduated recently, right?”

“Fairly recently? Just about a year ago, yeah.”

I was nodding as I said this, though not really sure what to make of all of this information being regurgitated back at me. It was surreal, having someone I had just met explain to me how much they already knew about me despite me knowing nothing about them. I made another mental note to review what information I had shared online. I couldn’t tell if I was flattered or uncomfortable by his research.

He remained standing by my desk; is he waiting for me to finish packing?

I had now put my coat and scarf on and hoisted my bag onto my shoulders, posturing to leave. Everyone who had been angling to go to the pub were gone and the office was mostly empty besides the cleaners and the few preparing to leave also.

“The Mackintosh is a very prestigious institution. Very hard to get into,” he announced.

I exhaled sharply, not knowing how to respond. What do you mean by that? Was it meant to be complimentary or mockery? I wanted to ask if he was congratulating me on getting into the school or taking a jab. Did I not look like someone who could have gone there?

I didn’t know what to say. A part of me wanted to half-joke that it can’t be all too difficult since they accepted me, but I also remembered the long, gruelling nights of preparing my portfolio after work. Although I didn’t want to refute him and diminish the school, I also couldn’t bring myself to be proud of what I had done without feeling like I was gloating. So I gave him a meaningless answer, a filler, conversational fluff.

“Oh really?”

“Yes actually,” his tone felt a little heavier since we transitioned our conversation to our alma maters. “I got rejected when I applied which is why I went to Strathclyde.”

Kevin remained immovable from his spot, looking at the ceiling as if searching for answers. The cleaners had to skirt around him to wipe down the desks and collect used mugs and plates. I maneuvered myself awkwardly to make space for them to do their jobs, not sure how to respond or if I could leave. I looked down at the floor, noticing I had dropped around 3 different post-its under my desk. What do people even do in these situations? Should I pretend someone is calling me?

“But,” my eyes snapped back to him as he continued his lamentation, “I had a really good time during my Master’s. I don’t really know if the Mackintosh’s course structure would have suited me anyways. It was really… design focused wasn’t it? Like, not really realistic? Like, I don’t think the course is very good for designing real buildings. I think I’m a more technical person. I want to design real things. Real buildings and architecture.”

I found myself nodding to his little monologue although I was completely befuddled. Could we not talk about this at the pub? On the way to the station? How was I meant to know you were a more technical person? How would you know the course if you didn’t even take it? Why are you even keeping me hostage here? What do you want from me?

But I smiled reflexively, words tumbling out of my mouth before my brain could stop them.

“Yeah, I get you.”

The moment those words left my mouth, there was an internal scream from my little monster.

No! We do not get him! We want to go home! Stop just saying things to let him talk and get us out!

I had to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming externally. Kevin was still looking at the ceiling. Even one of the cleaners looked confused as she was emptying out the recycling bin. Why were we still here? What is on the ceiling?

I turned my gaze to see just what was so exciting about the ceiling and the fluorescent lights glared back at me. I felt blinded and stupid despite Kevin’s continued performance.

Fine. Keep your secrets. I didn’t want to know anyways.

“Although people think the Mackintosh is a better school,” his emphasis on ‘think’ was unmissable, “Strathclyde actually ranks higher for architecture. I checked.”

Kevin now turned back to face me, smug. “So actually, I think Strathclyde may be better than the Mackintosh.”

A moment passed and the only thoughts I could hear in my head were: Huh? Okay? Did you really keep me here to tell me this? Did you seriously keep me here to tell me you thought your Uni was better than mine? What? Am I meant to care? What? Did you just—?

Earth to Miyu. I desperately tried to make sense of what I had just heard while trying to ground my thoughts. Someone was laughing outside as they walked their barking dog past the office. A symphony of Henry hoovers, running taps, and rustling bin bags surround us. My PC screen saver told me it was 6:25pm. When did we even start this conversation?

No— you should be asking WHY you started this conversation.

I stood there, cardboard cut-out with my mouth slightly open from disbelief and confusion as he addressed me with his phone pulled out.

“Oh, I really need to go. Are you ready to leave? Have you finished packing? ”

I threw my arms out weakly while my legs did a little uncoordinated jig. I would’ve thought that the coat and the bag were strong enough indicators that I was ready to leave—but, never mind.

How did this man not realise? What?

We finally started walking towards the door. I am free again. Free to leave. Or…

“Are… you still going to the pub?” he asked casually as we stepped onto the streets.

No no no, please.

“Hm? Oh, no— I don’t think I will today. I’m actually… really tired so I think I might just go home.”

I don’t think I ever want to talk to anyone ever again. At least not today. No thank you.

“Oh, okay.”

We were standing together again, stiffly outside the office. He was smiling at me, and I tried to smile back, pleadingly. Please let me leave and not hold me hostage with conversation in another location.

“Well, it was really nice meeting you and talking with you today.” Kevin’s energy levels seemed unchanged.

“You too,” I said, giving a little head nod of acknowledgement.

Liar.

“I am going that way,” he said, flailing his arm towards the direction I wanted to go in. “How about you?”

“I go towards the station,” I replied, gesturing wildly in the opposite direction. No canal walk for me today.

“Oh, okay— well, I will see you tomorrow Miyu!”

“Yes! See you tomorrow, Kevin!”

And with that, we parted in separate directions. I immediately put my headphones on and turned the volume as high as I could tolerate it to drown out my inner screams. Maybe my last farewell was far too enthusiastic; it wasn’t that I disliked him but I really, really did not want to talk to him anymore.

As I walked towards the station, it became increasingly apparent that I had no idea what just happened. What was he trying to do? Did I say something weird? Why did he even want to tell me that? Does he hate me?

The more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to know. I loved talking. I loved talking to people. Am I not always hungry for conversation? What happened there?

Maybe I need a drink.

And with that thought… I decided I’d think about making my usual pit stop on the way home.

You never change do you?

No… maybe not.