Felt in the mood for a quick writing exercise - look at the people around me at work and type up quick descriptions of them. I've changed the names (like they'll ever read this but whatever).
Might do some more tomorrow.
I looked around the room at the rows of silent people typing away, and
Closest to me was Troy, a data analyst who spent the better
part of his day opening and closing windows on his computer in such a hurry it
looked as if he was perpetually searching for something among the countless
excel spreadsheets that cluttered his computer. He always had a notebook open
on his desk, on which he would scribble graphs and equations which I could
never understand. It was hard not to assume his mind worked more like some sort
of machine, but if it did, it was something far more along the lines of Rube
Goldberg. His speech was stuttered and fragmented at the best of times; it was
as if he could not quite choose which sentence to say first, and usually ended
up saying all of them at once. I quite enjoyed talking to him. Beneath the innumerable
strings of thought I always imagined rained down Matrix-
style in his mind was a wry sense of humour, although one
not quite apparent at first. His angular face and flurry of curled hair reminded
me of something between Benedict Cumberbatch and Woody Allen, and gave him
something of a sombre expression.
Next to him were the two customer support officers – Raghad and
Ashan – who would take staggered lunches so someone was always by the phones.
Their routines were frequently in this vein and in all my time here I never saw
a moment when one of them wasn’t at the desk. Raghad was tiny – a short woman
with a thin frame who frequently wore large scarves, possibly as a way to not
entirely disappear from three dimensions. She always sat on her chair with her
legs tucked under her and again, I could never help but wonder if that for
height reasons. She was kind and funny and seemed to never run out of favours
to ask me, although all this did was hide a ferocious side that she frequently let
out online, usually in the forms of social justice articles written for various
magazines – a fact that surprised me when I first discovered this. What Raghad
was Ashan was not. Well, actually, he was as friendly as his co-worker but
while her tiny frame contained an energetic streak, he moved slowly and
deliberately with the sort of precision of someone who’s done the same actions
for quite some time and had no interest in changing anytime soon. His social
life was a mystery, at least to me, but his choice of cult film t-shirts gave a
strong clue as to what he did.