Shut the front door. Forty-two steps. Right turn. Walk one hundred and seven meters. Left turn. Down the stairs. Twelve steps to the left. Body towards the rail-track.
Within seconds the subway train arrives. The doors open right in front of her. Hundreds flood out. She enters the carriage, the first to do so. Two seats left. Her exquisitely formed buttocks find the ugly yellow plastic.
As the doors close, the counting in her head begins. Fifty-one. Fifty. Forty-nine. And eight. Her face shows no emotion at all. Forty-seven. A single bump on the track, a short moment of hesitation by the driver would render the countdown useless. But it never has. Not once in the past six years.
Seven. Six. Her almond eyes open as she gets up. Five. Four. Three. The train is braking. Two. One. And open fling the doors.
Three hundred and seventy-one meters, three flights of stairs further – and a traffic light that switched to red just as she put her left leg on the first white stroke of the zebra crossing – she arrives at the glass revolving door. Right on time. Seventeen minutes and twenty-two seconds, door to door. As planned.
Things sure run like clockwork since androids rule the world.
Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.