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we need to replace some of the ceiling fans. they spin with a dangerously volatile quality overhead, having dizzied themselves from years of going round without ever being oiled or serviced. if i glance upward, i can see one wobbling at its base, visuals mirroring the uneven whirring sound it's recently acquired. like a dancer who's tired of her pirouettes, legs about to buckle. i'm not the only one who notices it; there's other co-workers, some clients, visitors.

silena agrees. being a facilities manager, her primary concern is the price—there's a lot of fans and a lot of them are slowly rusting out. places where customers or visitors come in are a priority, we both agree. it's lunchtime and she's decided to talk about it with me now, but i don't mind. i'm not hungry, and it's nice being able to speak openly across tables while the rest of the floor is empty.

our conversation distracts itself after a while, once the critical things are sorted, as often happens with impromptu discussions. she talks a bit about bakeries and the mall nearby, trash talks a co-worker in the nicest way i've ever heard. i mainly just listen, not because she's the type to talk a lot but because i have nothing to say.

as she trails off, i hear the overlap of shoes dragging themselves past us and glance to the side. people are getting back to work, albeit hesitantly. the office begins to somewhat fill itself with the few people here today, the way raindrops sparsely sprinkle the inside of a glass.

silena watches them file in with me. "maintenance feels like crap sometimes," she says. she tips her head back on her chair, staring at the fans with a half-hearted gaze. the one right above us slows down for a moment, lets out a disjointed squeak, then resumes its sisyphean route. "i hope to god these fans don't fall on someone."

the rest of the day wanders past the walls of my memory. i had one more meeting next; some sort of customer, some sort of request, but i can't recall what that some was. i work a desk-job, but i've been speeding on a highway since morning—the way you know where you're going and how you got there, but when you try to conjure an image of the memory, all the cars' headlights are blurred and warping. you don't actually read the road signs as much as you know which one to turn at.

well, it's not just today: my entire week's been going with that same motif. it feels vaguely blurry. the only vivid memory i have is monday night—meeting that barista, percy, in the café.

there's no reason for me to remember that night in particular. yet still, perhaps i remember too much. from the taste of the coffee to each and every pin on percy's jacket. the whirring of the heater, the warmth of that jacket against the crawling cold. the colour of his eyes stick with me the most—that ineffable, startling green. i don't think there's a shade of paint in the world that could do it justice.

as i drive home, he comes and goes from my mind, his name flitting through with the speed of a butterfly's wings. this isn't the first time i've been unable to stop thinking about something, but it's never been like this. never about a stranger.

of course, though, the more i try not thinking about it, the more details my brain pulls out for me. the single bead on his necklace—did he paint that, or was it someone else? or maybe it was store-bought, like that, though it feels unlikely. i should stop thinking about him.

i can turn on some music, i suppose. there's not much you can think about when there's sound to drown anything before it surfaces. that might be one of the reasons i love metal. my mind pictures his fingers wrapped around a styrofoam cup as he pushes my coffee towards me. i remember that he didn't ask the other woman for her name. just me. it gives me a strange, unwarranted sense of satisfaction. as if i like being watched. (i don't.)

i don't end up playing any music at all.

by the time i reach my apartment, my mind's finally stopped turning over every minuscule detail from monday—instead, i've landed on more monotonous things. what i'm going to make for dinner, whether i can do it in between loads of laundry, how much time it's all going to take. the reliable drudgery of everyday life.

my house is stuck at the absolute end of the eighth floor hallway—more so, it seems to be stuck in that grey haze between aberrant and appealing. it isn't messy, or anything—i'm unfortunately meticulous about cleaning—but it's not catered to the idea of guests visiting. just because no one besides myself has ever been here. when i meet people, i exclusively go over to their houses, or we meet at a midway destination. i guess that gives me a freedom most don't get—to keep a place solely for myself, away from the world's prying eyes.

the layout is pretty typical. a kitchen joint with the living room, a bathroom, and a single bedroom. a significant portion of the living room is taken up by a punching bag, hanging from a hook on the ceiling—a side-effect of nine years of muay thai. there's a shelf mounted onto the wall above my bed-frame, littered with artworks that my eyes tend to glaze over. they're all made by me. once they're made they seem to sink into the shadows, suddenly invisible and unimportant. but to throw them away feels adverse, so this is where it all ends up.

i like to paint. it's the one and only thing in my life i can say that i only do for myself, the closest thing i'll ever have to one of those 'dirty secrets' people are always talking about. besides actual secrets, of course—but those are minor things, thoughts that live and die in my head. art is a lot more tangible.

the first time i started drawing was after my mom died. i was ten, and in a way, one thing was switched for another: art waltzed into my life just as my mom stumbled off its cliffs. long before that, someone had told me—or maybe it was a fact i'd read in a book—that people eventually forget most things. something clicked, and the idea of forgetting her terrified me.

so, i began a silly, child-like attempt of immortalising her. and even when the fear of forgetting her finally withdrew, the obsession to preserve things spread. it turned to other objects, other faces. eventually, more abstract things—emotions that i could only quite explain through physical urges. i learnt the idea of wanting to scratch trenches into my eyeballs out before i learnt the feeling of shame.

people have told me i have a knack for art. not just the constant practice, but a certain fundamental—which, maybe. i was born naturally ambidextrous, have always been able to use my hands for different things simultaneously. i also have a knack for proportions. when i was younger, i would break down everything i saw into little shapes. now, i can sometimes draw portraits or landscapes from memory. knack or not, i don't think it was ever talent. it was that compulsive obsession that wouldn't let go of me until i did what it wanted. whatever tormented me, be it thoughts or feelings or people, it only left after being given a new life on paper.

none of the drawings here have eyes. it's a peculiar detail. even the portraits. they're scratched out or have rough blocks of tape where the eyes should go. some of them hold empty eye sockets. it's not that i can't draw eyes—most of those thick scribbles cover the actual drawing underneath—but i avoid them more often than not.

every artist loves eyes, and i'm sick of them. eyes can speak, feel, burn, but they also watch. the constant watching unsettles me. (they start watching and never never never stop—)

there is no sight in this room. nothing to watch me, nothing that can pry and pull from the paint on the walls to the thoughts in my head. no eyes to pry out the untold. i find the world easier this way.

maybe that's why percy sticks in my mind so much. it's the strange way he watches things—including me—and seems to absorb the truth out of anyone and anything. i remember how he knew i wanted a lid to my coffee, despite my declination. how he knew i was cold; the way, against myself, the words spilled out my throat. it's... i can't really call it unsettling, or even unwanted. but days later, and it feels like his gaze is burning into me. he lingers like the aftertaste of hot coffee.

on monday, without my car, it had taken me over an hour to find my way to wall street. if i had to go there now, for whatever reason, it would take a lot less time—though parking fees could be a killer. it strikes to me that i'm still not very sure of when percy's shift starts. not that it matters. rationally, i don't want to see him again. not really. i'll probably forget his name in a few weeks. (i probably won't.)

i don't decide to go, not by my own accord—it's a strange, compulsive urge that possesses me and drags me out, treating me as a marionette in its grasp. it drags me out to the same café, at 3:30 in the morning, and steals my sleep in anticipation of it.

the last time i came here, i'd wandered by accident, and so it takes me about fifteen minutes of scouting to find the place. this time i'm wearing my jacket in anticipation of the cold, and a hastily-worn beanie that leaves bits of hair sticking out. i'm not wearing my contacts either—grey, semi-round glasses rest on the bridge of my nose.

my movements aren't quite as subtle as monday: the bell chimes when i enter, and the barista looks up from his phone to me. he's a tall man with curly hair and a goatee—which is to say, not percy. maybe his shift's changed, or he's called in sick. i don't want to ask the barista. when he looks at me, i suddenly think that i don't want to be here at all. maybe i'll just order a coffee, to-go, and disappear. disappearing sounds nice.

then that urge possesses me again, pulling at the inside of my mouth until i shape out words i wouldn't want to voice, not now or ever—it makes me, almost casually, ask the man if he knows about a barista here named percy.

"percy?" he looks surprised at the mention, but recognises the name. "any reason you're asking for him?"

"uh," i clumsily attempt to piece together a response, "i met him a few days ago, during his shift. i happened to be here again, so just thought of giving a quick hello. y'know." the last part isn't true, but it feels necessary to add. he doesn't need to know that i'm only searching for percy because he refuses to leave my head. asking about someone to check on them—that sounds much more normal. something any john doe would do.

"ah," he says. awkwardly clearing his throat, he explains, "he doesn't work here, actually. you're talking about monday, right? i was down sick and he offered to cover for me."

i don't expect that. "oh," i say. suddenly aware of my skin heating up. unlike where i'd been sitting near the window last time, the heater's angle perfectly directs hot air here. it's too direct an angle and i momentarily miss the cold. my fingers feel strange—i have the urge to snap them in half, as if they're glowsticks and that's the only way to get them working.

"do you want his number?" he asks. there's a mild hint of suggestiveness in his voice. his tag reads grover. percy hadn't been wearing a tag—or an apron, for that matter.

i shake my head. i shouldn't have come here. why do i want to see him again? i'm not usually like this. rationally, i would be more than content with that night staying eclipsed by time. to let it be bleached by memory and fade and fade until it's only something that existed, once—until i'm forgotten, too.

the man, grover, frowns a little bit, studying me. "you sure?"

"yeah." i pause for a moment, and then: "can i have a flat white, then?"

"here or to-go?"

"to-go. and cold."

he obliges, and i get my drink just as the bell chimes to announce another customer's arrival. it's the same red-haired woman from monday, and though we briefly cross paths on my way out, she regards me as a stranger.

my wristwatch begins beeping as i unlock my car. right now, it sounds more like a laugh. i look at the time—close to four. a louder beep follows once i press the button on the side, and the ringing shuts off instantly.

my car's windows are tinted with mist from the cold. i trace a finger along it, leaving a line of sight. it exposes the pack of gum resting in a cup-holder. swallowing down the icy air that's found its way to the inside of my throat, i get into the car.

i've hardly had more than two sips of my coffee, but i feel wide awake. i don't start the car's engine instantly. i sit there, a hand resting on the steering wheel, my other hand torn between lifting the cup to my lips and setting it down. since i'm already outside, i suppose i can buy groceries later—i know a store that's a minute-long walk from my house's parking lot.

the prospect of mundanity doesn't work to distract me this time. my other hand's finally decided on letting me another sip of my coffee. it chills down my throat, stinging like a fistful of snow, but the biting sensation is exactly what i'd asked for. i stay there for a minute that drags on much longer, watching a staggering group of drunks make their way out of a car. a lady's figure falls, and i imagine a line of falling dominos—not quite, because, someone catches them by the arms. their arms are peppered with glow-in-the-dark stickers, seeking to replace the stars in the night.

i watch them disappear out of sight through misty glass, and am left sitting in the silence. trying to shake off the strange sense of disappointment that creeps in colder than the night.

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