When The Two Worlds Meet

                                                                     Cristine

The alarm went off, loud and persistent. She jumped up in bed, eyes still closed, her hand fumbling for the phone. Her long brown hair was a mess. Yesterday’s makeup was smeared across her face and pillow.

“Where is my goddamn phone?” she muttered, finally opening her eyes. It was still almost dark in her small bedroom. She spotted the phone at last. As the screen flared to life, she squinted and turned the alarm off.

Cristine lay back down and closed her eyes. Just as she was about to drift back to sleep, it hit her.

“The interview.” She sat up again. “It is today.”

She rushed out of bed and pushed the heavy curtains open. The gray day behind the window promised to be hard. She frowned and turned to the mirror.

“Fuck.” She grabbed her towel and bathrobe. “I need a damn shower.”

Cristine allowed herself a few minutes under the water. The warm steam softened her tight shoulders and eased the headache pressing behind her eyes.

There was no time for breakfast, but coffee was a must. Instant coffee with milk and a piece of dark chocolate. “Why not?” she whispered, holding a large cup in one hand and the hair dryer in the other.

“No heavy makeup. I should look professional.” She spoke to her reflection, practicing her smile, then a more serious expression—something smart, something confident.

She glanced at the clock on the pink, wallpapered wall. Eight a.m.

The green dress seemed right for the interview. She slipped it on and nodded at her reflection. Whether it was her good mood or her belief in luck, looking at her reflection, she thought she looked particularly good.

As she pulled on her boots and coat, the confident smile faded. Her hands trembled, her heart racing. “I really need this job… otherwise Mom—” She swallowed and waved the thought away.

“My lucky brooch is right here,” she reassured herself, touching it lightly. “I can do this.”

She locked the door of her tiny one-room flat and rushed down the stairs.

The bus stop was a five-minute walk. The damp air got under her thin coat and sent chills down her spine.

“Why is it so cold today?”

Cristine quickened her steps and reached the bus stop just on time. The bus arrived, and she got in. The smell of breakfast and wet clothes reached her immediately. She chose a freer spot and stood there, glancing out of the window as the bus moved, slow and heavy. A swarm of questions occupied her mind. She had received the invitation from the boss directly, not an assistant. On top of that, Mr. David Richards told her she’d been recommended by her ex-boss. It would have been believable if that same man hadn't fired her just a few months earlier. Her grip on the bus handle tightened until her nails dug painfully into her palm. The sting sobered her up; it was her stop.

She got off. Across the street sat a gray, skeletal building that seemed to lean against the wind. She looked at it, and a cold needle of dread pricked her chest.

At the entrance, she paused for a few seconds and looked around. The wind lifted her hair, undoing all her morning effort. With both hands, she tried to fix the chaos the wind brought to her hair and the dread, lingering deep in her mind.

She walked into the building. The old-style, massive staircase led the way up. Cristine’s breathing grew heavier. The damp air of the building entered her lungs. Cristine squinted and frowned.

“Why couldn’t his office be on the second floor?” she whispered, her breath already shortening from the climb.

To her surprise, she didn’t find any other offices in the building. On the third floor, she noticed a half-open door. An old man sat inside the small, dimly lit room. On the wall, she read the name: “Joseph’s Lock & Key Repair.”

How very fancy… for a place like this.

“Good morning, sir,” she greeted the old man warmly.

“Good morning.”

For a few seconds, she watched him work at his small, dark brown table, filled with all kinds of locks and keys—old and new, big and small. The man had greeted Cristine but didn’t bother to look at her.

She smiled and continued up the stairs. Her steps echoed, breaking against the aged, mold-stained walls and the big wooden-framed windows.

Cristine walked slowly, and it took her quite a few minutes to reach the fifth floor. On the last stair, she stopped. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped.

The fifth floor looked nothing like the rest of the building. Her gaze slid from the white tiles that looked like marble to the clean, white walls—spotless, soothing—until it stopped on the big black door in front of her.

She inhaled deeply. Even the air felt different. A sweet, painfully familiar scent filled her lungs.

Jasmine? Is this even the same building?

She walked toward the door. The nameplate read: “David Richards, PhD — Psychologist & Consultant.” A slight tremor ran through Cristine’s body as she swallowed hard.

“I don’t think I could be lucky enough to be his assistant.”

She reached for her brooch and rubbed it with force. Cristine looked down at it.

“You will help me. I know.” She tapped the little sterling owl with its shiny black eyes three times. “You have always helped me.”

She took a deep breath and pressed the intercom beside the door.

The door opened. Cristine’s pale hand reached for the handle. Its cold felt extremely pleasant against her sweaty palm. She pushed the door open and walked in. She found herself standing in a spacious office. Warm air wrapped around her, mixed with a stronger aroma of jasmine. The tremor slowly vanished into the smoothness of the space.

Cristine looked around, her eyes desperately trying to spot anything besides white in the room.

“Hello? Mr. Richards?” Her voice filled the space.

She took a few steps forward and closed the door behind her.

“Miss Robertson, welcome.”

A deep, cold voice came from the far corner of the room. She turned toward it and saw him walking out of another room.

“Come in, please. Take a seat, Miss Robertson.”

She took slow, uncertain steps and sat at the desk across from David, who had already taken his seat and opened the thin folder with her picture on it.

She couldn’t help it. Her eyes were fixed on him as she studied his black hair, carefully combed back and held in place with what seemed like an impressive amount of gel. His black eyebrows were neatly trimmed. Her fingers unwillingly touched her own brow.

Her curious gaze then moved to his clean-shaven face, yet she didn’t dare to look into his eyes. Instead, she looked down at his dark blue suit—clean, expensive—and the black tie pulled tightly around his collar.

As David opened her folder, she sat straighter and placed her burning, damp palms on her knees over her green dress. Only then did it hit her.

This dress. I must look like a parrot. The only colorful thing in the whole office.

Her heart beat faster, and she felt her cheeks burn. Just then, she heard his voice again and found herself unable to resist its chillingly calm tone.