When she came back she directed me to fill out the forms before sitting down in the chair behind the desk. Mostly they were questions about myself: name, date of birth, address, social security number, phone number. If I was a convicted felon. A few of them, I had to take a moment to remember what it said on my new ID and info packet Dad gave me to study.
“My dad is here with us…My mom, she passed away,” I mumbled as I squinted at the paperwork and tried to remember.
Atalanta North was born in Michigan on November 9th. She is not a convicted felon. Her new phone number is… She likes-
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I know it can be hard to lose a loved one. Why, I lost my Marv not three years ago. Miss him every day,” she sniffed.
I paused to take a good look at Mrs. Dorris. She didn’t look much older than thirty, but with the way she talked she might as well have been a great grandmother. Old at heart, I guessed.
Filling out the rest of the form, I gave a small sigh of relief, hoping that I remembered everything.
Dorris scrutinized the papers for a few moments before popping up. “These look good. Our computer system is old, you don’t mind being paid with checks, do you? I know most people prefer that new direct deposit.”
“Checks are fine.”
I would just have to find a place to cash them.
“Good. Good. Now I believe Thesis is in the music hall if you want to meet him. He can give you a tour of the facility and tell you a little bit about your work here. I, unfortunately, need to go check on a few things but it’s just down this hall to my left. Big sign, you can’t miss it.” She pointed to the hallway before fixing her glasses and leaning over to squint at the computer sitting on the desk.
“Thank you,” I whispered to her distracted reply of ‘you’re welcome’ before I made my way down the hall to find this Thesis.
The hallway had several doors along both sides. All of them looking basically the same as the last when I peeked through the open doors, an empty room filled with chairs. A couple of them had art equipment like easels or what looked like pottery wheels. No music hall, though.
It wasn’t until I reached the end of the hallway that I saw the sign. Peeking through the door, I noted that it was certainly larger than the others, a small auditorium with a stage. It was empty besides a guy, hunched over a baby grand piano wiping it down with a rag.
He was wearing cliché dark blue janitor overalls, spray bottles strapped to a belt around his waist. From what I could see, he had broad shoulders and a fiery red auburn mop of hair.
I could hear him humming softly to himself as he worked. The tone was melodious, drawing me in, and before I knew it I was stumbling down the aisle and up the stage to where he was.
He hadn’t seemed to have noticed my presence, nor heard the loud racket I had made when I accidentally knocked over a music stand in my tunnel-visioned walk to him. But the melodic sound of his voice, now louder, filled my head, turning it to fuzz. Like when I drank six shots of tequila that one time on a bet.
Without thinking, I reached out to touch this man, brushing my fingers lightly on his shoulder, startling him out of his work.
As if a drainage plug in my head had been pulled, all of the fuzziness seeped away, leaving me a little cold and shaky. Palms on either side of my head, I shook, confused as to what had just happened.
“Are you okay? Miss?”
A soft hand came to rest on my shoulder, making me jump, and the hand let go.
My eyes snapped up to meet a swirl of gray blue. The guy was standing in front of me, his arms extended towards me, palms up in the universal body language of someone approaching a dangerous animal.
I rubbed my face with my palms and replied though my hands, “I’m okay. I think I might just be coming down with something.”
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
I looked back up to him and repeated what I said, confused as to why he hadn’t heard me the first time. I noticed how he watched my mouth instead of my eyes when I said it. Damn, the guy must be thirsty to be blatantly checking me out.
“That’s not good, maybe you should sit down.” Gently, he took my hand and guided me to the bench seat of the grand piano. “Your hands are freezing, and judging by your wet clothes I’d take a guess you were just out in the snow?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I walked here from the high school.”
He crouched down to be eye level with me. "That’s a two mile walk.”
His voice was odd. Beautiful and soft, like the smooth tones of a harp but every few notes was a little off. As if he had some sort of speech impediment.
I shrugged. “I didn’t really have another way of getting here.”
It was in that moment that I realized his hand was still holding mine, its warmth seeping into me. I was torn, my nature wanting me to pull away but also not wanting to lose that warmth. With a squeeze, my attention was brought back to the man attached to that hand.
Getting a better look at him, I would say he was around the same age as Percy, early to mid twenties, with a nice dusting of scruff on his jaw. I wanted to touch that scruff, feel its prickliness against my palm. His eyes—which were again staring at my lips—looked tired and were accompanied by dark half-moon bags.
I gently tugged my hand out of his and scooted off the bench to gain some distance.
Looking at him I said, “My name’s Atalanta. Dorris said I would be helping you with the cleaning starting today.”
“Darn that woman. I told her I didn’t want any help,” He grumbled and stood.
“She said you were stubborn. Insisting you do all the work yourself when you didn’t need to.”
He blew a raspberry and ran his fingers through his hair. "Of course she did.”
“I promise I’ll work hard. Besides, I already filled out the paperwork.” I bit my lip and began to fiddle with the jacket sleeves.
He studied me for a few moments before sighing. "All right, let me show you around. My name is Theseus by the way.”
"Theseus, that makes a little more sense," I chuckled.
He tilted his head like a curious puppy. "What did Dorris say my name was?"
"Thesis. Like the thesis of a paper,” I smiled.
He returned the smile which quickly turned to laughter that he smothered with his hands. When his shoulders stopped shaking, he said, "Most people call me Thesis. I think it's easier for them to pronounce."
He collected a bucket off the floor and once again took my hand, guiding me down the steps of the stage and out of the music hall.
I wondered why he kept taking my hand, far too familiar with a stranger than he should be. I also wondered why I wasn't weirded out by his casual touching. Perhaps it was the warm tingles I kept getting with each touch, different to the shivers I usually received. My mind warred with my body on this. I wanted to pull away and berate him, but there was something that told me to continue holding that hand.
We wandered down the hall as he told me a little bit about the community center. How it was the gathering place for most of the town's activities, from health and safety classes to Friday night bingo. The high school swim team practiced here, as the center was the only place with a decent enough pool—and yes, part of my job would be to clean it.
He eventually let go of my hand as he pulled out keys to open up one of the art rooms I had seen earlier. "As for the art classes, we try to encourage them to clean up after themselves as they tend to get pretty messy, but trust me when I say that you'll still be mopping up plenty of paint and clay."