Foto: Lucia Varsiková
Mitch was typing a report from the last week business trip to Amsterdam. It was late afternoon, he was in his spacious office of a town house overlooking a park in Uccle, Brussels. The sun rays came in stripes through the wooden stores, the keyboard was producing a comforting dry clicking sound and Mitch was, well, if not happy, at least content. Do not anybody tell me long working days suck. On the contrary, work gives structure to a day, a meaning to a moment. The business trip went fine, the deal almost closed, a parallel voice hummed in his head.
Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence counting of one verb, two nouns and five figures, he heard a different sound – a key rattled in the lock, then the sound of high heels on the old oakwood floor receding. Joana, the company secretary, just left. He was on his own. Just a moment later another realization came, he touched the back of the chair. No, his jacket was not there. His jacket was in the other parlour downstairs; they used it as a conference room. He had left the jacket there earlier that day after a meeting with the accountants. His keys were in the pocket. And the only way out of his office was through the secretary´s, which was now safely locked.
