Page 4 of Angel of Thursdays

Then the service log. Mrs. Reyes’s Seamaster, hairspring correction, regulated to +2 sec/day. He wrote the date and capped the pen, then uncapped it and capped it again for the click and the sound.

Peter Pratt—his boss, the Pratt in Linden & Pratt—appeared in the doorway. He wore his usual Patagonia fleece vest, his reading glasses dangling from a cord around his neck.

“Mrs. Kaur called about the Rado. Walk-in out front, battery swap.” He leaned on the frame. “You want it?”

“No,” said Cassiel.

“That’s the spirit, Casio.” Peter knocked the doorframe twice and left.

Cassiel’s thumb found his fidget ring. The beads moved, small and plastic, meant for a child’s finger but open enough to accommodate any. Jaewon had worn it for a week after fishing it out of a gift bag at another kid’s birthday party. Then, bored of it, he’d placed it in Cassiel’s palm and attempted to barter for a Pororo drink. The ring had been sticky. Cassiel kept it because his nephew gave it to him, and his hands found a use for it later.

He took off the ring, placed it on his tray for safety, and got back to work.

* * *

Lunch was the chicken katsu sandwich from Okaeri on Clement Street. Extra cabbage, Japanese mayo, bread pressed thin enough to hold structurally without crushing the cutlet. Four times a week for seven months. He’d eat this sandwich until the place closed, raised prices to an unacceptable degree, or changed the bread. The bread was the right bread. The ratio was the right ratio. These were the things that made it good.

Cassiel ate standing at his bench, and the bread held firm.

His phone lit up with his mother’s name: Miyoung Kang. A small contraction in his chest accompanied it—not dread, just his body’s reaction to the weight of her attention.

“Hi, Umma,” he answered.

“Minseok-ah, did you eat?”

“I’m eating now.”

“Eating what?”

“Sandwich,” he replied.

A pause. “Minju says you haven’t replied about Chuseok.”

Cassiel had not replied about Chuseok. He had read the group chat and placed the event in the category of things he would respond to when he had decided what the response was going to be. It was the 7th of August. Chuseok was September 17th.

“I’m still figuring out work, Umma.”

A rustling noise from her end. Two seconds, a pause to decide whether to continue pursuit.

“Make sure you eat something warm tonight. Not just a sandwich.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Something with rice.”

“Yes, Umma.”

* * *

Back in his apartment, without a little sister to incorrectly dictate it, the light was how he wanted it. 3000K warm white overhead, 2700K in his bedside lamp; enough to read by. Correct temperature, correct lighting, correct sheets. Thread count was a lie, he knew this, but even that was correct. Everything arranged and selected, exactly as intended.

He lay in bed with his phone and watched a video about drama in the mechanical keyboard community—a group buy gone wrong, two hundred buyers out of pocket, the designer’s Discord vanished overnight.

Cassiel owned a mechanical keyboard, chosen and assembled and the matter closed, which freed him to watch other people’s crises as someone with no stake and all evening. This was his recreation: the consumption of other people’s expertise and passions and occasionally—often—their complaints.

The video ended, and before the next one could auto-play, he was already in the app store. The app’s description confirmed that STDY stood for STEADY. Cassiel downloaded it and the icon appeared on his home screen. He opened it before he could do anything sensible, like not doing that.

The profiles were people who looked like royalty-free stock images, with the occasional photo of a man holding a large fish. Most of the fishless profiles listed the expected services—plus-ones, date experiences. The app assumed its audience knew what they wanted and offered checkboxes to confirm.