I wasn’t busy when you asked to see me. I was already on my second cup of coffee. It was too early for a cigarette break or for me to say I was otherwise engaged. In the cubicle set, it’s easy to look busy. Half-started excel spreadsheets, a work e-mail window tab left ajar becomes a perfect hiding spot for my Wikipedia curiosities and Priceline travel wishes. And just what is William Shatner up to these days? My chest tightened. Of course I knew what happened after you, my boss, said, Close the door behind you. It’s over. I blamed over sleeping on F train traffic. I had been taking longer lunches. Skirting past the reasonable five minute grace period. I hate my job. I hate your horn-rimmed glasses and lingering judgmental glances at the copy machine. Do you know how to xerox something properly? Face down, not up. When did I sign up to toil my life away in a cubicle? Some point half past Hollywood fantasy and post bachelors degree. My palms were sweaty; it’s unbecoming. You must have known that I stole office supplies from the closet. Post-it notes, envelopes for letters never to be sent, red pens. I might have needed all of that. I hated your grey suits. Not black. Not navy. Always grey. I sat in the chair ready for a clogged heart valve or an anxiety attack or surprise relief. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I love my health insurance. It was only a matter of time before I was caught booking last minute trips to Savannah and downloading music illegally. I was not in the business of giving record companies cash. I lived in Queens. I couldn’t even afford Brooklyn. And there I was sitting in your office with a third rate Jackson Pollock painting and the indent of your wedding band sitting on your left hand. Staring at your stupid glasses. I would have been late to this meeting if I could. Who were you? Just a vice prez of accounts. You snuck out early on Fridays. Had a full time nanny for your kids. A mystery wife with designer handbags. Darling and quiet. Drank scotch after work like everyone else. Laughed at stupid jokes. You were no different but your paycheck was. Your hair was slicked back. You stared at me. I was waiting to get fired so then I could move to Jersey City and really work on killing myself. Your lips parted, hesitantly: “I have been in love with you for quite some time.”
Stephanie lives in Brooklyn, New York. One day, she would like to be a silent film star. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from dotdotdash, Nano Fiction, LIES/ISLE, and Uphook Press. She can be found at her blog: http://kitschy.tumblr.com
–Art by Sagi Kortler