4 4–the silver window

Strangely, the stench of nicotine, and that of something woody, and deep, simply blended in with a soft rose scent, hitting his nostrils as they walked into the office which was practically a palace as compared to his cubicle.

He wasn't so sure whether to feel honored or to be merely petrified of that office itself.

“You can have a sit gentleman.” Their editor-in-chief stood tall despite her petite figure and had quite the jaw, perhaps it was enough to leave space for her nose to slightly curve almost rigidly, the rest of her quite harsh just as well as her deep and sharpened eyes sort of won against the rest of her, practically chewing at whomever they so happened to come into contact with, sadly.

The silver skyline continued dimly over the city, leaving the bleakly toned sight to almost stand out mystically amidst the rigid buildings which were much older than he was, the London Eye peeking close to the sterling sky, right where dirty grey clouds huddled just a bit behind the church like a curious child in hiding.

They both obliged, sitting down.

The dark-headed woman wore a suit that almost hung over her petite shoulders, giving her body a shapeless form, as a mole decorated her upper lip–just as it did his left cheekbone.

The slightly stiff woman buried her slim hands into the pockets of her dress pants, gesturing towards the figure that his friend's eyes had fallen to with the arch of his thick brow. The figure occupied the edge of the neat desk he felt he could barely have the nerve to touch, as he felt he wasn't yet in its caliber.

The man sat there with a cigarette hanging from his lips, shoulders sort of thrown back nonchalantly whilst he tainted the neat office with the stench, something which the woman didn't seem to be minding.

He found himself throwing his eyes to a somewhat stiff family photo on the desk, something which immediately made him feel so awful as he buried the tip of one of his sneakers into the carpeted floor, the skies continuing to grey.

He flinched only when something came in contact with the table, heavily, making him pull his hands from under the desk where they had been resting against his knees. The reason behind their requested presence laying on the table, staring right back at him.

He looked up, his lips curled almost naturally as he blinked up at the woman who now had her pale hands planted against her desk, leaning forward with something he wasn't familiar with enough to name dancing in her eyes.

“This came this morning,” she said, staring mostly at him than his colleague and friend as she referred to the headline practically screaming inconsiderably and triumphantly, sadly.

His friend reached for the folded newspaper which wasn't theirs, something he was certain was the reason behind the woman's irritated face.

He turned to his friend and started at the headline which was somehow written too boldly for him not to cringe.

The date read that it was of that very day and a face of a boy stared back at him uncomfortably, the person's smile rather unsure and sort of sad in some way he couldn't bear with-he turned from it.

He sort of recognized the face, but he had to be sure.

Maybe for his comfort.

“Isn't this the lad from the pool? The poor fellow we found at the-”

“He has a name now according to these fuckers...and we didn't know about it,” she said, wasting no precious time. “How come?”

This she had said while actually starting right at him or perhaps through him, he wasn't sure. Though he was sure that the picture of the boy and his name landing in another newspaper wasn't his fault, he did his job.

He found his narrow nostrils sort of flaring despite how he wasn't going to say anything, especially when they did so on their own–and only once in a while. He sort of ducked his head just in case, after all this was his employer and maybe his wife's reply had sort of made him a bit sensitive.

“So, he has a name?" he sort of asked, his usually deep voice sounding somehow small as he forcefully twirled his wedding band around his finger, staring at the kid. The boy's eyes seemed smaller than his from the picture as he tried his best to, according to what he could gather, smile at the camera.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Do they know what happened...or are they just sensationalizing shit they think will sell?”

“You think there's more?” the woman asked, slightly arching herself forward as if he was to reveal some big secret.

“They wouldn't write like this if there wasn't, they just don't care,” he said, attempting to sound quite formal this time.

This was his boss after all.

“As yet,” the other man in the room said.

“You think something sinister's happened here?” his friend beside him said, his voice sort of lower than usual.

“You can't ask me that.” She folded her arms, her eyes still eating through his own despite him telling himself otherwise. “That's what I need to know...from the both of you, gentleman.”

He didn't know where to look so he turned to the boy who was staring at him with eyes and though he referred to him as ‘a boy’ he was sure he wasn't older than the fellow by more than three years or four years, though the boy's uncomfortable face sort of looked a bit older, with something so deeply sorrowful clinging to his eyes.

“According to the bloody fucking police it's an ongoing investigation and they–”

“They usually say that just to get people off their backs,” his friend beside him interjected with ease, obviously not bothered by the whole office, or the line of awards decorating its walls, unlike him who was rather anxious as he sat on the chair rather uncomfortably bouncing his heel up and down, without meaning to.

He even bit his gently carved pale rose-tinged lips as he stared down at the boy. “They can't say it's suicide at least.”

“We were there, so...is that why we're here? To recount the details of that evening?” the young man said, eyes sort of heavy of doubt as the sterling coming from the window just behind their editor-in-chief coming to meet his browner toned face, leaving his brown eyes almost watery.

“I want this story,” she said, her eyes so that in contrast to the soft backdrop dirty grey clouds and the soft bleached blue skies, just behind the window with no sign of any sun except maybe for the silver pearl of light behind the clouds.

“I'm not following,” his friend said, folding his arms as he leaned a bit forward.

He couldn't help it, all the accolades hung on the wall and displayed behind glass, that entire office actually, made his throat so dry and his tie a bit too tight as he found himself licking his lips unaware as he stared at the sparkling jar of water.

The man who had been smoking, for the most part, turned to them both, cigarette in hand. “I can't take the story, so...what do you bloody think?”

“We have a reluctant source...and this is big, I know it. You're young and so they'll more comfortable with you, lads.” The man pressed what was left of his cigarette against the glass ashtray he was sure could turn into a deadly murder weapon with one swing.

“You want us to talk–”

“I want a story, not paragraphs no one will read. I want tragedy not some stiff detail of some boy who went missing,” the woman said, voice sort of hoarse from probably smoking as the man was, something the used ashtray had been a tale of.

The heavy stench of nicotine overpowered the rest, clinging to his throat uncomfortably, making him scrunch his nose.

“There's something about you two, this...odd outlook on things which I like...and your column is doing well with people," she added, finally taking out a cigarette from the packet of those fancy ones he thought no better about just like the rest. “I want that.”

“You...this...if the police are hiding something here, it could...us?” He ran fingers into his brown curled hair, his thick brows sort of knitted together tightly.

“They are, I've just got my own story which I've been on for months. I've got to stay on it, I can't have those fuckers the runaround again," he said, brushing long and sort of frail-looking fingers against his stubble. “I've been on this for months.”

The man's eyes sort of held a color he sort of thought was a deeper green, maybe a dark emerald shielded beneath the dimness which soaked his figure as he stood with his back now facing the window, missing the watery light.

He watched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, head tilted.

“I sort of...took pictures of him when everything ran away from him,” he said, pushing his hair from his face as he frowned at the thought.

“Okay, I didn't run. I was helping the–”

“Of the body?” the man asked, chin decorated with slight stubble roughly.

It almost made him absentmindedly reach for his chin which he was sure probably was a lot cleaner than the man's stubble so roughly seemed, maybe even immaturely so.

He pursed his lips together before he nodded, his back sort of held by a sudden chill, as he parted his lips to utter. “Yes.”

“Still have them?”