The Hating Game

He looks at the page. “How’s it working out so far?”

“I’m glad this isn’t a pop-up book.”

He huffs in amusement. I follow him to the kitchen and watch him cut vegetables into ridiculously neat little sticks.

“Omelet okay?”

I nod and glance at his whiteboard. Tuesday: OMELET. I look at what’s for dinner for the rest of the week. I wonder how I can score an invitation back.

“Can I do anything?”

He shakes his head and I watch him crack six eggs into a metal bowl.

“So, how was work? You clearly missed me.”

I put my hands on my face in embarrassment and he just laughs a bit to himself.

“It was boring.” It’s the truth.

“No one to antagonize, huh?”

“I tried abusing some of the gentle folk in payroll but they got all teary.”

“The trick is to find that one person who can give it back as good as they can take it.” He takes out a pan and begins to fry the vegetables in a single, stingy drop of oil.

“Sonja Rutherford, probably. That scary lady in the mailroom that looks like an albino Morticia Addams.”

“Don’t line my replacement up too quick. You’ll hurt my feelings.”

The reminder of the likely outcome of this entire scenario makes me decide to lean against him. The middle of his back is the most perfectly ergonomic place to hide my face.

When it all comes to an end, I’m going to remember this.

“You gotta tell me why you’re here.”

“I got a bit . . . sad today, thinking about everything changing?”

“Doctor Josh diagnoses you with Stockholm syndrome.”

“I know, right.” I snuggle my cheek into the muscle.

“Maybe you fear change, rather than the prospect of sitting alone in there.”

I appreciate he hasn’t automatically said I’d be out job hunting.

“I kept thinking about your blue bedroom. I feel like this is something we need to discuss. Before time runs out.”

I hear the deep sizzle of the egg being added to the vegetables. He covers the pan and turns.

“You’re the sort of person who needs to be eased into things slowly.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me.

“I know you, Luce, and you do. Your freak-outs are pretty impressive. Imagine we have sex right now. Right here, on the counter.” He slaps his hand down firmly on it.

“You’d be so awkward afterward, you’d never speak to me again. You’d quit ahead of the interviews and go and live in the forest.”

“Why would you care? I’d like to live in a forest.”