I take a moment to wipe the sweat off my brow. This place is so warm that I can barely concentrate. This early in the morning always seems the worst, no matter the time of year. Even in the winter it is too stagnant but in the summer, oddly enough, it remains the constant, sickly temperature.
Inhaling the sticky, stifling air I turn back to the task at hand, to the deft knifework that I am so used to. I pull the blade and it slides easily as always, splitting the surface. The motion of my arm and the drag of the cut are so familiar that I don't even know it happens. I just do it as I always have: deftly and quickly. I twist the knife between my fingers and set it aside without a thought.
With the same routine autonomy as the cut, I pull back the surface to view its contents and am assaulted with what dank, stale odor so thick that I can almost feel it on my face. I take a step back and cough, trying to quickly dispel the disgusting stench from my nose and lungs before I choke, and waving my hand to try and disperse the cloud.
I look around at those around me to see if anyone noticed my sudden coughing spell, afraid of their judgmental stares. Fortunetly there is only one other near me, a tall lad wearing the same style crimson and brown garb as I. He didn't seem to notice me, much to my relief, and continues to go about his business.
Glad that noone noticed me, I return to my work. I reach under the surface my subject to grab ahold of its contents. They feel rough under my fingers as I grip tightly to them, the stench assaulting me again as I disturb its source. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and turn away as I forcefully try to rip the contents out with my bare hands.
I begin to cough again as my lungs fill with the vile smell, and I keep trying to pull. The contents won't come free and my subject lifts off its cart, unwilling to part with its innards. I have to violently shake it until the contents come free in my hands, the husk falling limply to the cart again. I am still coughing and have to drop my spoils next to the fallen container.
I again turn away from my work and cover my face with my arm. This only makes matters worse as I am now covered in parts of the contents, and my coughing increases. I try to wipe my arms off on my tunic but it is no use; I'm covered in my subject's contents. Taking another step back, I try to breath in fresh air, any air that isn't that disgusting stench.
Soon my nose gets used to the smell and I turn back to my work. I give a small sigh and walk back to my cart. Holding my breath, I pick up the bundle of new rugs I have just unpacked and hoist them onto my shoulder. After giving the box they came from a small kick, I take the product to their shelf.
I hate stocking rugs.