Page 1 of The Cyrano Situation
Chapter One - The Order of My Life
Cyril
Therearepreciselyfourteensteps from my bed to the bathroom. This is not a testament to the size of my apartment, but rather to the economy of my stride. I've counted them every morning for the past four years, a ritual as much a part of my routine as the three-minute, forty-five-second shower that follows.
My name is Cyril Nolan, and I appreciate order.
On Tuesday morning, as predictable as the sunrise, my alarm sounded at 6:15. Not 6:00, which would be too round a number and therefore unsatisfying, and not 6:30, which would leave insufficient time for my morning routine. No, 6:15 provides exactly the right cushion—not too much, not too little.
I silenced the alarm with one practiced motion, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and began my fourteen-step journey to the bathroom. The wooden floor was cool beneath my feet, the apartment silent save for the distant hum of earlymorning traffic. The city never truly sleeps, but at 6:15, it does occasionally doze.
My shower lasted precisely three minutes and forty-five seconds. I dressed in the clothes I'd laid out the night before—charcoal slacks, a pale blue button-down, and a navy cardigan. Professional but not ostentatious. The cardigan had elbow patches, which I'm aware might be considered a bit affected for an editor, but I've always found them comforting. Like having a small shield against the world's chaos.
Breakfast was one slice of whole grain toast (no butter), a small bowl of plain Greek yogurt with precisely seven blueberries, and a cup of black coffee. I do not vary this meal. The predictability is soothing.
By 7:30, I was walking the eleven blocks to Pinnacle Publishing, where I've worked for the past six years. The morning air held the first hints of autumn, and I adjusted my pace to arrive at exactly 7:58, allowing me two minutes to reach my office before my workday officially began.
It was at 7:42, while waiting at the crosswalk at 39th and Madison, that the first disruption occurred.
"Cyril! Hey, Cyril!"
I closed my eyes briefly, steeling myself. There is only one person in my orbit who speaks with that many exclamation points before 8 AM.
Hart Fielding jogged toward me, coffee cup in hand, his messenger bag bouncing against his hip. Hart is our publicity director, a position that seems to require boundless energy and an almost pathological cheerfulness. His hair was artfully tousled in that way that suggests either he'd just rolled out of bed or had spent forty-five minutes arranging it to look that way. Knowing Hart, it was probably the latter.
"I thought that was you!" Hart fell into step beside me as the light changed. "I almost didn't recognize you without your nose in a manuscript."
"Good morning, Hart." I maintained my pace, which meant Hart, who is several inches taller, had to modify his stride. "You're in early."
"Big day! We're finalizing the tour schedule for Melissa Gibbon's new thriller. Her last one hit the list for sixteen weeks, so the publishers are throwing actual money at the marketing campaign." He took a sip of his coffee, which I could smell from two feet away—something with cinnamon and possibly hazelnuts. "What about you? Working on anything good?"
"I'm reading a promising literary debut. First-person narrative about a lighthouse keeper in Maine who may or may not be losing his mind." I checked my watch. 7:44. Still on schedule.
"Sounds cheery," Hart said, grinning. "Hey, you want to grab coffee? I know a place that does these amazing lavender lattes."
"I don't drink lavender lattes." The very idea made me wince. "And I have coffee at my desk."
"That sludge from the break room doesn't count as coffee. It counts as chemical warfare." Hart gestured with his cup toward a café on the corner. "Come on, live a little. I'm buying."
I checked my watch again. 7:45. If I deviated now, I would be late. But Hart was looking at me with those earnest eyes of his, and I found myself calculating how quickly I could consume a coffee if I were to acquiesce.
"Ten minutes," I said finally. "I can spare ten minutes."
Hart's face lit up as if I'd agreed to fund his Broadway musical rather than simply have coffee with him. "That's the spirit! You won't regret it."
I was already regretting it.
The café was one of those trendy establishments with exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs, and baristas with more tattoos thanavailable skin. The menu was written on a chalkboard in elaborate script that I found unnecessarily difficult to read.
"What'll you have?" Hart asked, already scanning the pastry case with the enthusiasm of a child at a toy store.
"Black coffee. Medium. One sugar."
Hart looked physically pained. "That's it? In a place that offers twenty-three specialty drinks?"
"I like black coffee."
"You like routine," Hart corrected. He turned to the barista, a young woman with blue hair and a septum piercing. "He'll have a medium black coffee, and I'll have a large honey cardamom latte with oat milk and an almond croissant."
