Stepping through the squeaking door, he brought a brisk chill from the frostbitten calgarian arctic air into the foyer. So brisk indeed, it chilled his co-worker, the older man with salt-pepper-hair and beard behind the front desk, to the very bones.
“Brrr,” say said collectively, as if bringing truth to the cold, thus proving that it is, in fact, freezing as fuck out there.
The young man closed the door behind him and swiped his employee card at the front desk. The computer screen confirmed his arrival with a simple “IN”.
For a quick minute, they chatted. This and that. All and none. And, of course, the cold.
Then the young man said, “Wish I could have stayed at home. Work on my novel, instead of driving through minus-fourty windchill to come to work.”
The older man chuckled through his grey-black beard. “Ah, we’ve got a writer-folk here,” he said, bringing up the needed equipment for the young man.
“Yeah. I’m a writer.”
Scanning-in the small devices needed for the job, the old man smiled. Not the kind of smile that approves and appreciates, no. The kind that makes you want to punch him the face. The nasty kind. “So, what have you published, huh?”
He said, “Nothing. Yet.”
Louder, clicking on his computer, the old desk-clerk laughed again. “Then you’re not a writer.”
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