Everything in the small office was spotless except for the desk in the middle. This was heaped with paper documents - and some that were thicker than paper - that seemed to have settled into a weary pyramid. The open file folder on top had been opened, and various things within it highlited in a rainbow of colours. The passages seemed to follow no particular pattern, but that didn't seem to bother the woman sitting behind the desk.
Bright red hair - hair that had never appeared naturally on any human being - was pulled back into a ponytail. Her dress did not mark her as a secretary. Instead, she looked like she'd just crawled out of the fifties. It was, as she'd explained so often, rockabilly. This didn't seem to bother her at present though. Poised with her chair leaning back at an uncomfortable level, she was focused solely on her iPod. It was pink, if that mattered.
Yes, she was a girl. Sometimes even a girly-girl. So what if she liked pink?
In any case, it was more important than the pile of paper on her desk. Honestly. She felt old just reading it. She worked hard! A break was much needed. She needed to immerse herself in the present! Or, at least, the almost-present. The documents on her desk didn't help with this.
Hence, Queen.
Tasia Xanthopoulos lipsynched as no one working for a vampire had lipsynched before. It was surprisingly easy, given the criteria. She was utterly and completely channelling Freddie Mercury in that moment.
I see a silhouette of a little man -
Scaramouche, scaramouch, will you do the fandago -
Thunderbolt and lightning - very, very frightning me -
Galileo, Galileo -
Galileo, Galileo -
Galileo figaro magnifico!
Did the fact that her boss was on the premises seem to bother Tasia? Not as such.
There weren’t many artists who would willingly paint with their eyes closed. Those that would paint using two paintbrushes simultaneously were even fewer. Tasia’s on-site boss was not merely attempting to perform one of these feats; he was succeeding at both.
Marcus stood barefoot in his office before a large canvas. In his right hand was a brush, its attentions focused on the mid to lower half of the piece and the beach scene its bristles were shaping with each stroke. His left hand was in the air with index and middle fingers slightly raised, tapping out the beat to Symphony No. 4 in a Major “Italian” by Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. The second paint brush was several feet above him, tending to a similar beach scene all on its own.
As the music rose to a particularly thrilling crescendo, Marcus opened his eyes and raised both hands to conduct along with renewed enthusiasm. However his exuberance quickly died when an accidental splash of paint across the lower painting called his attention to a disturbing sight: the somber indigo and midnight blue of his moonlit beach had somehow been steadily transforming themselves into bright yellow and neon pink.
Both paint brushes clattered to the floor. Marcus’s eyes, shining with distress, dropped to the palette hovering next to him, and the problem became apparent immediately. The pools of paint where the indigo and beautiful deep blue had been were now smeared with the offensive colours that had invaded his painting. He could only conclude that he had picked up the wrong paints when refilling the palette a moment ago, but why? What could have possibly influenced him to choose such brash colours?
He’s just a poor boy from a poor family-
Spare him his life from this monstrosity-
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He plucked the headphones from his ears and stuffed them in the front pocket of his shirt along with his iPod, and headed for the door, the palette crashing to the ground behind him as all telekinetic focus was lost.
Tasia. There could only be one source for such intrusive and nonsensical music feeding its way into the air, ready and waiting to worm its way into a heavily distracted telepathic mind.
Tasia.
Marcus resisted the urge to storm into his secretary’s office, and instead paused just outside the door.
The plug for Tasia’s earbuds shimmied its way out of the jack on her MP3 player, seemingly bent on poking her eye out.
