Under My Boss's Authority: Office Romance Collection by Jamie Knight (small books to read .TXT) 📕

Chapter Two - Hugo

The image appeared as though by magic. Rising up out of the rough surface of the canvas. First as an outline, drawn in charcoal, then in full living color. The rosy flesh added to the cheeks, the light of life to the eyes.

It was like surgery. Each precise and practiced movement yielding the expected result. The pen might be mightier than the sword, the brush was sharper than the scalpel. Revealing the bones and skeleton of the world.

I’d gone through the usual motions. Feeling ever more like a fraud. Made a ritual of slipping into my pure silk pajamas and cap, looking much like a character from classic literature. Even if The Night Before Christmas had long ago passed. I did the thing with the warm milk, with if anything only made me more alert. I even, to my eternal shame, tried counting sheep. Getting to one-hundred thousand before I decided to give up.

The sandman was not going to grace me with a visit that night. Much like every other night for the past five years. Were it not for occasional catnaps during the daylight hours, all the doctors would agree, sleep deprivation would have done for me years ago. One particular insomnia specialist of advanced years and considerable experience, claimed to have never seen anything like it.

Beyond help, by either science, milk, or sheep, I did what I always did when in doubt. I created. Writing was out of the question. There was still the book to contend with. I knew, as sure as the sun rose and God made little green apples, I would never be able to work on anything else until it was out of my mind and off my chest. Otherwise, it would haunt me like a ghost the rest of my days. Sadly fitting really.

So, painting it was. I’d never even picked up a brush before I was 30, yet, there I was, an adult prodigy unknown even to myself. The term some liked to use for a situation like mine was ‘savant,’ even if it wasn’t wholly accurate

Their insistence on the term most likely stemmed from an inability to reconcile the idea of discovering talent late-in-life. The general myth was that true talent is cultivated from a young age; Mozart being the go-to example. Honestly, I’d just never thought to try.

That’s not to say it was easy. I still had to learn. No one is born knowing geometric technique. Yet, learn I did, and within a year I could make photo-realistic renderings. All kept safe in my room. The discovery of them would be just another thing to make people interested. Which could only lead to more calls for me to come out of hiding. Not to mention renewed speculation as to why I’d disappeared in the first place. It wasn’t the time. I still had thinking to do before I could face the world again.

The room was beginning to grow light as I put the last stroke on the signature. A habit I’d gotten into without really meaning to. It would have been so nice. A series of paintings with no signature. No way of knowing, let alone proving who had created them. The only thing to go by being the work itself. That hack Warhol never thought of that, did he

Hefting the canvas from the easel I set it down on the window sill to dry. Things would move much better and faster with the help of the sun, which had made a near miraculous appearance already, betraying February’s usual modus operandi.

The iron clouds had parted for a blessed moment of illumination. It was still cooler than I liked, but much more tolerable. Either way, it was preferable to most other places in the country, where the potential for snow still lingered.

My project abandoned, I moved to the kitchen in search of a different kind of fulfillment.

The incision was clean. Running from tip to tip, opening the flaky pastry just so. That was the easy part. Far more taxing to hand and mind was the application of a pair of milk chocolate peanut butter cups, nestled within the two halves. Not exactly a ‘breakfast of champions’ but very enjoyable nonetheless. Usually the chocolate would have been already in the croissant when it was baked, but I like to do things my own way.

The lid held down with a strategically placed toothpick, I place the chocolate croissant sandwich into the microwave

As the microwave hummed and worked its magic, I set about other endeavors. A copper kettle was one of the primary tools in my arsenal. Time was it would have been coffee, but I’d been off it for the last few years. Even the smell of it had started putting me slightly on edge. I still liked a hot drink in the morning and switched over to tea.

As the kettle boiled and the croissant turned, I took a surreptitious pull from my

e-cigarette. The beep joined the chorus of noises in the small kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder if the little device was an absurdity.

Rather than outright quitting my life-threatening habit, I’d surrendered to another form of technology, supposedly to take care of my health. Even in a situation of something that might well kill me. How trusting we were of untested devices. Just as long as our pleasures could continue.

Properly chemically roused, by both chocolate and caffeine, not to mention the little hit of nicotine, it was time to commence with the paid work of the day. Boucher Books was still a going concern, despite my absence. We were even taking on new staff. Something I’d never really considered, but there it was.

The movements of the office weren’t exactly the top of my mind that day. It was getting to be close to Valentine’s Day and I had to get cracking. The candidates were never known for sure. Though, if previous years were anything to go by, there were always rumors.