-6-
cardholders inc.

The vehicle came to a stop half an hour later and pulled up the driveway of a rustic villa. I waved to the receptionist with my ID-card and looked into the scanner. I wasn't really in the mood for some chitchat so I'd intended to get the package and head straight towards its destination. An image of my father flashed before me as I saw the young blonde girl sitting behind the wooden counter. The double glass doors slid aside, obviously bulletproof, like almost all the doors of big corporations nowadays. I didn't even pay attention anymore to the metallic bowl hanging from the ceiling. I knew everything I did would be monitored from some office elsewhere. He was always great at making girls blush by making one single comment, mostly on her make-up or hairdo. I grew up to be rather like him in that manner. But not today, I wasn't much of the flirty type today. My father knew exactly how to manipulate people he'd only need for just that instance. He wouldn't be able to recognise them when he say them again the very next day, or maybe the next hour, and the same would go for them. Yet, it was always fascinating to observe this socialising spectacle, this meaningless small talk. I looked at the bony structure of her face as she finished up the conversation with some customer on the phone. Her eyes sparkled from the minute I walked into the building and I saw her straighten her back into her chair, or maybe I imagined she was doing that just for me. I must have looked like a bum, since I couldn't get myself to have a shave this morning. My mood had changed throughout the morning, from bad to even worse and I couldn't really tell why exactly. The receptionist handed me a package, tightly taped together and sealed in some shiny blue (see-through) plastic. I pressed my thumb against the indicated square on the tablet, which lit after a few seconds. A soft beep sounded and I removed my hand, without taking my eyes off of the receptionist's questioning gaze. "Had rough morning?", she asked. I answered the question mumbling something about not being to catch my sleep, with what I avoided explaining why. Actually I had a fairly good night's rest, so I couldn't tell her why I radiated this dullness. I was loathing myself for being filled with clichés. Was I really acting cranky because I had too little sleep? Or was I more repelled by the fact that I let her think I was acting this way because I had too little sleep?