The voice began as soon as June’s key rattled into her office door. And the door was worse than glued, every time, no matter what she did.
“Today!” the voice proclaimed, and she threw her hip against the door like the hockey player she’d seen lurking hopefully outside Michelle Archer’s office door moments before.
“Stop it!” she hissed.
Her voice echoed in the hallway, enough to catch the hockey player’s attention.
The hulking student frowned and headed her way. “Need a hand, Prof?”
“Door sticks,” she muttered, giving it a kick with one booted foot. It popped open. From the corner of one eye, she saw movement inside her office and pulled the door back to block the student’s view.
He looked dubiously at her from underneath a fringe of shaggy nut-brown hair. “You are a professor? Not just breaking in?”
Dr. Michelle Archer chose that moment to arrive in a blur of cool poise and expensive perfume. The other woman let out a glib laugh. “How droll. June just looks too young to teach, but the university did hire her.” Her tone questioned the wisdom of that decision. “Come along, Lars.”
The others turned away and headed down the hall — just as the voice began to warble again.
“I have counted the stars and heard the fate of dark worlds,” caroled the voice from inside her office.
“Laptop must have malware,” June offered glibly, fingers crossed. “I’d best see to that. Shall I?”
She slipped inside the door and slammed it shut. Sliding to the floor with satchel and coffee still mostly intact, June leaned against the cool, stubborn, sticking wood and rubbed her forehead with her free hand.
“Pytho, we’ve had this conversation!”
The skull on her bookshelf was mere feet away in the obvious part of her office. It lacked a body, and yet the expression Pytho turned her way gave every evident sign of having his hands on his hips. “You said, and I quote, ‘Would you mind not trying to get me killed on a daily basis?’ Nor have I done so since.”
“Professionally embarrassed counts as killed,” she muttered.
“This generation,” the skull tossed back at her. “As if you know war, for all that you study it.”
“Enough, Pytho. Must you prophesize every day?”
This time, his expression looked like a slightly apologetic shrug. “Purpose of existence.”
She held up a finger and took the lid off her paper coffee cup. June drained half its contents, then carefully put the plastic lid back on to keep the warmth inside.
“Hit me with today’s doom, then. Let’s get it over with.”
***
This week’s prompt was from Padre: “Would you mind not trying to get me killed on a daily basis?”
Mine went to Becky Jones: They were waiting to use the last of it for a special occasion.
