The tiny pads hit the paper as each finger applied force to corresponding keys.
All that can be heard in the room is a typewriter, a breath and the subtle movement of the typist as cloth from her blouse brushes against paper and desk.
A few moments go by under this rhythmic orchestration as ink invades the pale of loaded paper. The typist pauses to let out a sigh.
She looks to her left out the window and into the sun setting sky. It is beautiful, just like the silhouettes it casts on our lady sitting in chair.
Her brown hair is perfectly set even after hours of much to do.
She should be at home, undoing, eating dinner and preparing for a night’s rest, but there are a few court cases within the next week that she feels deserves more than procrastination.
Della Street finds herself just that, procrastinating as the sky grows dimmer under trails of horizontal pastel.
She starts to think about the garden she has neglected and the stray cat she feeds for a little company.
Perry never lets her work so late when he is still in town, but he is in Indianapolis till Monday so she has time to herself.
It's Thursday, almost Friday but Della isn't sure she really wants the weekend off. Just then, as her mind turns back to her work, she hears a knock at the office door.
It’s a bit unusual someone would come by so late looking for the lawyer's help, but usual would seem a bit out of place with this office.
Della braces herself for any outcome and even opens the drawer with the gun just in case. She calls out in inquiry as is customary and professional, especially when there’s a light still on.
A feminine voice answers and she relaxes herself.
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