The Gravity of Old Wars

The clock on the wall hit two in the afternoon when it struck me that half the day had already vanished and I hadn’t managed to properly break down even a single personal crisis.

The damn perfume box had been shoved into my desk drawer hours ago. Drawer shut, lock turned. Containment protocol for emotional biohazard. I’d even stacked a pile of catalogs on top of it, as if glossy paper could restrain the past. If I didn’t look at it, it didn’t exist. My version of a scientific theory.

Now I’m sitting in the office meeting room, its walls half glass, half oak panels I’d chosen myself. On the table lay a tablet, a laptop, folders, and three human beings whose deadlines depended entirely on my emotional weather.

“So,” I said, pointing at the sketch on the screen. “The transition from the foyer to the Antibes boutique lounge is still noisy. I don’t want the client feeling like they’re walking through different Instagram filters every five steps.”

Luca, my part-time architect, spun his pen