TE22 Potpourri

Heidi Amsinck

My Name Is Jensen

When Frank finally left, shaking his head, she climbed down from the windowsill, grabbed her coat and switched off the lights, standing still for a few minutes in the dark office with her eyes closed. Half a century ago the whole building would have trembled as the presses rolled on the ground floor. The corridor would have been buzzing with the tap-tap of typewriters and reporters rushing in and out of smoke-filled rooms, knowing that what theydidmattered, that people all over the countrywerewaiting for the thud of the newspaper landing on their doorstep in the morning. Now the place was dead, a mausoleum to the fourth estate. She ought not to be surprised. The print media’s decline had begun years before she had even considered becoming a journalist, but somehow working out of her London flat had cushioned her from the worst of it. Here, in the shell of what was once an important institution, there was no escaping the facts. Her phone pinged. She fished it out of her bag and stood in the dark with her coat on, reading Henrik’s message, her face bathed in the blue light from the screen.

I must see you.

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