Eight

It was already half past eight when I got out of the office door. There are no more eateries open at that hour, so I’ll have to pass by the corner noodle shop for dinner. I’m not really that hungry anyway. Just tired.

It’s probably the only thing that I didn’t like about my job: the overtime. The working hours of the Centre is from 8 to 5, but the staff rarely closes shop earlier than 7 in the evening. Ate Carol, the spry Administrative Assistant of the Centre, said that there are even sleeping bags stored aside for those extra special times that we have to literally sleep over the work.

But I really can’t complain about it though. Aside from a few official letters I had to write for the day, there’s pretty much nothing else for a Communication Officer like me to do. And we really can’t say no to the Director of the General Services, who rushed to our office to get help for his slideshow which was due the next day. He even bought us some pizza to make up for the trouble, which probably is the reason why I’m still not hungry.

And as I walk past the bright lights shining down from the lampposts lining the sidewalk, I wonder how long this is going to last: to find myself walking in the middle of the night, going to a future as uncertain as the hour I can go home from work.