String Theory
Nine and a half hours before she decided to die, Nora arrived late for her afternoon shift at String Theory.
“I’m sorry,” she told Neil, in the scruffy little windowless box of an office.
“My cat died. Last night. And I had to bury him. Well, someone helped me bury him.”
“But then I was left alone in my flat and I couldn’t sleep and forgot to set the alarm and didn’t wake up till midday and then had to rush.”
This was all true, and she imagined her appearance – including make-up-free face, loose makeshift ponytail
and the same secondhand green corduroy pinafore dress she had worn to work all week,
garnished with a general air of tired despair – would back her up.
Neil looked up from his computer and leaned back in his chair.
He joined his hands together and made a steeple of his index fingers, which he placed under his chin,
as if he was Confucius contemplating a deep philosophical truth about the universe
rather than the boss of a musical equipment shop dealing with a late employee.
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