Monday morning in Cakung. Back to the same place, like nothing had changed.
The glitter of Hotel Mulia’s crystal chandeliers was gone. My black satin backless dress was folded back at the bottom of my suitcase, hidden under a pile of cheap t-shirts. The expensive perfume and cigarette smoke were gone. Back to the usual warehouse smell—cement dust, sweat, diesel baking in the sun.
"Celly! Stop spacing out!"
Pak Yanto’s voice exploded in my ear, shattering my daydream. He threw a stack of pink invoices onto my desk.
"That's a return from Cikarang. The driver's outside throwing a fit about his receipt. Input it now, quit daydreaming!"
I gritted my teeth, holding back the urge to throw a stapler at his sweaty forehead. "Yes, Sir. Working on it."
"Don't just say yes. Do it. Mas Gabriel ju
