After Pablo left, Rodolpho lay awake stewing over the day and the disastrous ending to his night. Must've been Pablo's fault, he thought, heading for the shower. He got dressed and went out, determined to prove to himself that Pablo was wrong.
He hit an upscale club and tried with both women and men. The result was the same every time:
"Honey, it's not happening — not even with a miracle," one of the girls said.
Rodolpho would have laughed at the comment if it hadn't meant the disaster that it did.
"Go home, relax, and try again tomorrow. You're probably just anxious," another suggested.
Just what I needed... But he decided not to push what clearly wasn't working and returned to the penthouse. He took another shower and lay in bed without actually managing to sleep.
Wonderful, huh?! he thought, frustrated, when he realized it was already time to get up and he hadn't slept at all.
Alan, for his part, hadn't had a good night either. He'd been plagued by nightmares about being fired and his coworkers' sabotage. After leaving school, he'd wanted to believe the days of pranks were behind him, but he'd been dead wrong. College had shown him people could be far worse, and the professional world — that was another level entirely.
Rodolpho's head weighed a ton when the alarm went off. He stretched an arm out, fumbled across the nightstand, and silenced the thing with a clumsy punch. He dragged a hand over his face, feeling the rough skin and the exhaustion piled up behind eyelids that refused to open properly. What a miserable night. The failure at the club still burned in his chest like a physical humiliation — a knot in his stomach that blended with the sleeplessness. He dragged himself to the bathroom. Under the cold shower, he tried to banish the image of the girls laughing at him, but one voice kept echoing: Not happening — not even with a miracle.
"Hell," he muttered, punching the shower wall.
He stepped out, picked a suit without the slightest enthusiasm, and dressed on autopilot. He needed work — needed targets, numbers, and people obeying his orders to forget what had happened. The drive to the office was a blur of irritation and hard braking. By the time he pulled into his reserved spot, whatever remained of his mood had evaporated completely. He passed through reception like a shadow, ignoring the standard "good morning" from whoever happened to be there. He walked into his office, dropped his jacket on the chair, and stood staring at the glass desk. The silence of that space, which used to bring him peace, now felt like a quiet mockery of his frustration.
On the other side of the city, Alan didn't need an alarm to wake up. He was already lying there — staring into the same darkness as always — well before his phone buzzed under the pillow. His mouth was dry, his chest tight from the echo of the nightmares about termination that had chased him all night. That old feeling of powerlessness from his school days had come roaring back. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor.
Alan stood and walked to the bathroom without hesitation. He didn't need to feel the walls; he knew the apartment by heart — every corner, the exact texture of the floor, the precise distance between the bed and the sink. He washed his face to the sound of the dripping faucet, amplified by the silence of the house. As the cold water hit his skin, his mind turned to the job market and how hostile the office managed to be. There, the violence was never loud — it was a silence that isolated him, a report left aside, a conversation that died the moment he approached.
He went to the kitchen with firm steps, made coffee, and felt the mug's warmth against his cold hands. He drank the bitter liquid in one go, searching for the energy that sleep hadn't given him.
Only on his way out did he grab his backpack and his guide cane. The bus ride was the usual stress — the pushing and shoving, the traffic noise, and people bumping into him without an apology.
When he walked into the company building, the sounds changed. The smooth granite floor made his shoes echo differently, and the blast of air conditioning hit his face. He walked toward the elevator, sweeping his cane to read the lobby's flow, already sensing the heavy atmosphere of the floor above.
Not far away, the executive office door opened. Rodolpho stepped into the open corridor overlooking the cubicle floor, his eyes fixed on anyone who dared look up. The day was just beginning, and neither of them had patience to spare.
(Rodolpho, 38)
(Alan, 24)
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