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[notinthebook]

 There's a certain point in the workday where everything just slows down -- as long as there haven't been any emergencies.  It's a very specific, drowsy, four-forty-five in the afternoon sort of feeling, when the sun's started to head westwards and the office feels as dead as a graveyard.

She hasn't worked a nine-to-five in...ever, really, and it isn't hard to tell: she's been fidgeting since four.

Now, she's got a little pile of balled up pieces of paper on her desk, and she's tossing them, one by one, at an empty coffee mug on the floor, under the mugshot measurements.

So far, she's gotten one in.

There are five more scattered around the mug.

Pressing her lips together in concentration, she pauses, moves: the little white ball arcs through the air.

Misses.

(That's number six.)

"Aw, man!"

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[notinthebook]

It's weird, how your body betrays you even when you think there's nothing there to betray, but there it is: a tightening in her stomach, faint, but there, just like her smile comes involuntary in a brief flash.

It's meaningless, really. A drink with a coworker, the simplest thing in the world.

Except that Graham is, in his own way, as confusing as Michael, as confusing as Henry, as confusing as Milliways. Sometimes he seems detached -- friendly, but distanced -- and then sometimes he smiles at her like he's doing now and there's absolutely jack shit she can do to stop herself from smiling back.

Tipping her own bottle, she clinks it lightly against his.


"I'd like that, too."