All is not Lost

Morning moved fast now. Or maybe Craig had simply lost the ability to keep up with it.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto his floor, coffee cups had yet to start moving between offices, phones had not begun ringing. The hum of the workplace lights were the the only welcome he received as he walked toward his work station. The click of his mules against the tile sounded sharper than usual in the early quiet, each step carrying him toward the glass desk outside Daniel Mercer's office like he was reporting for duty in some bizarre alternate universe version of corporate life.

At least he'd made it out of the apartment.

That alone felt like an accomplishment.

The pink Volkswagen Beetle had turned the morning commute into an exercise in humiliation, but it had also gotten him out of that increasingly claustrophobic apartment twenty minutes earlier than necessary. After yesterday's lipstick incident, Craig hadn't trusted himself to linger near the dresser any longer than absolutely required.

One glance at the desk told him the office hadn't been idle while he had been at his pole dancing lessons in the afternoon. Another note waited beside the keyboard.

Professional development now begins daily at 12:30 PM. End time to be determined by instructor recommendation.

- Management

Craig stared at it for a moment, lips flattening.

So Melody had authority over his entire afternoons now. Wonderful. Apparently pole dancing had become an official branch of his career advancement. And how long would these lessons be? He had spent a couple hours with her the day before and he had been completely exhausted. 12:30 until the end of the work day would be at least four hours! He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep up.

His purse slid onto the side hook beneath the desk before he sat carefully in the chair, smoothing the yellow-and-grey plaid skirt beneath himself on instinct. The hem rode high enough up his thigh that the motion mattered. Stockings whispered softly against the seat as he adjusted.

Then his attention shifted to the bottles waiting near the keyboard. Different colours today. Red. Pink. Yellow.

"They rotate them now?" Craig muttered.

A sigh escaped him as he reached for the yellow bottle. At this point resistance felt less like rebellion and more like unpaid overtime. Daniel Mercer had already made it abundantly clear that nails were not optional.

So Craig unscrewed the cap. The sharp scent of polish drifted upward immediately. Familiar already. Disturbingly familiar.

Long fingers spread across the glass desk while the tiny brush touched down against his thumbnail. One careful stroke. Then another. Smooth. Controlled. Relaxing.

That last part annoyed him the most.

Each pass of the brush quieted something in his head for a few seconds. Tiny bursts of concentration narrowed the world down into manageable pieces: colour, angle, pressure, precision. No Eros. No rewritten wardrobe. No pole dancing. Just careful little movements and glossy yellow polish catching the overhead lights.

By the third nail, a dangerous sort of satisfaction had begun creeping in. Not just satisfaction. Pride. Craig smiled down at his nails in admiration.

The application looked good. Really good. Even better than yesterday.

Another stroke. Another smooth coat. His mind drifted despite himself, idle thoughts unfolding automatically.

Matte finishes. Gold accents. Marbling techniques. Gel curing. French tips. Tiny floral detailing. A longer nail bed would help with balancing designs. Almond shaping would've suited his hands nicely. Maybe coffin shape for dramatic...

No.

Craig jerked slightly in his chair.

"What the hell?"

The brush nearly slipped.

A quick twist sealed the bottle shut harder than necessary. Frustration tightened in his chest as he stared down at his hands. Bright yellow nails gleamed back at him innocently.

That wasn't him. That couldn't be him. Eros was getting deeper into his head. That had to be it. Yesterday it had been shaving his legs without realizing it. Today it was daydreaming about nail art like he'd suddenly become some kind of beauty influencer.

His stomach twisted.

"I need to pay more attention," he muttered quietly.

Because the alternative was terrifying.

The rest of the morning unfolded in the strange, dreamlike rhythm that his new career seemed determined to maintain.

At nine-thirty, one of the accountants asked if Craig could take care of a complicated coffee order for a meeting because "you always remember everyone's preferences." When he'd delivered the coffee cart, he'd been thanked profusely, told that his performance was "real executive level."

At ten-fifteen, another request came for him to help out with a space that had gotten "a little out of control." The request only became more confusing when Craig discovered that the space in question was ]a child's bedroom inexplicably attached to the office near the mop room.

A child's bedroom.

Inside the corporate office.

Tiny racecar bed. Bright blue walls. Stuffed animals. Laundry basket filled with miniature socks. Craig didn't even question it anymore. It was best to move on, do the task, and get paid.

Most of of the job was tidying, picking up cars, making the bed. While he was there he emptied the clean laundry hamper and began to put things in their proper spot. The clothes folded easily beneath his fingers, small shirts and pyjama pants stacked neatly while his brain quietly screamed in the background about how none of this was real. Or normal. Or remotely managerial.

Yet somehow everybody treated it like perfectly ordinary workplace responsibility.

By eleven, bread dough was rising in the office kitchen while two women from HR complimented his skirt and asked how he was enjoying Velvet Vertigo.

"You got fast-tracked?" one asked, sounding genuinely impressed. "That's huge."

"I hear that Melody's incredible," the other added. "You're lucky."

Craig stood there in front of the oven wearing stockings and yellow nail polish while waiting for focaccia to finish baking. Somewhere along the line his life had become satire.

Still, compliments followed him all morning. People praised his nails. His professionalism. His adaptability. One woman from payroll even leaned over his desk and whispered, "Honestly? Management usually takes months before they send someone to advanced development. Daniel must really see potential in you."

Craig didn't know whether to laugh or throw himself through the nearest window. Instead he smiled weakly and thanked her. Because what else was there to do?

Noon arrived faster than expected. Bread cooling on a rack. Laptop shutting down. Purse retrieved from beneath the desk. The familiar knot of dread had already started forming in his stomach at the thought of another afternoon wrapped around a brass pole in six-inch platform heels.

Then his phone buzzed.

Frank.

Craig opened the message immediately.

Frank: Hey bud. We still on for bowling tonight? Wondering if you can drive. I could use a few drinks tonight to take my mind off of things.

Everything inside Craig loosened all at once. Bowling night. Still there. Still real. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

Maybe Eros hadn't taken everything. Maybe some things had survived. Fingers moved quickly across the screen.

Craig: NP - As long as you don't mind a ride in the pink bug, I'm good to be DD.

The reply came almost immediately.

Frank: thx bro- see you tonight.

Craig stared at the message for an extra second after the conversation ended. Relief settled warm and heavy in his chest. Frank was still Frank. Maybe not his roommate anymore. Maybe reality had twisted itself into knots around them. But bowling night still existed. Their friendship still existed.

Phone tucked back into his purse, Craig rose from the desk and smoothed his skirt down one more time. Yellow nails flashed briefly against the plaid fabric. Then came a deep breath.

Another afternoon at Velvet Vertigo waited for him. But for the first time since waking up alone that morning, the world didn't feel quite so empty.