“I know, I’m sorry, but I—”
“Attract the right guys. That’s all you need to do. The rest is just icing on the cake.” She winks at me, then returns her attention to her laptop. After a moment, she bites her lip. “Ugh, now I want cake.”
I stare at the picture on my screen—me in a cardigan doing some kind of “secret serial killer” professor thing, though the serial killer part isn’t really apparent, which I guess was the point—and I try to imagine being the kind of guy who swipes right on it.
Am I trying to attract secret serial killers?
Stuffy professors?
Does Prisha really know me at all?
Do I?
A shadow falls over my workstation. I glance up to find Mr. Milton—our immediate supervisor—standing over me. He is literally the word “douchebag” fashioned into physical male form. From his stiff dress clothes, to his shiny watch, to his perfect hair, to the mug of coffee he’s always sipping, to the condescending way he talks, to the sheen of his cufflinks. Douche, douche, douche.
“Is this yours?” he asks.
Whenever he talks to me, he doesn’t even look at me; he just stares at the sheet of paper in his hand, which likely holds a list of trending keywords and hash-tags I compiled for him an hour ago. “Yes, sir,” I answer him, “it is.”
“Hm.” He purses his lips after taking the daintiest sip from his mug. “Hm.” He squints at it.
I take a patient breath. “Is something wrong with the list, sir? Do you need more?”
He smacks his lips. “The letters are tiny. This is printed in 11 point. I need 12 point. Are you trying to kill my eyes?”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I—”
“Save your excuses for someone who has time for them.” He drops the paper onto my keyboard. “I need a new list on my desk in five minutes.” He saunters back to his office, his shiny dress shoes squeaking noisily with each step.
As I get to work reprinting the list in a font size that’s exactly one point bigger, Prisha gawks at me. “Mr. Milton has a lot of nerve. 11 point and 12 are basically the same.”
“Not really. And it’s fine,” I insist. “The poor man has … sensitive eyes.”
“You’re way too nice. I hate the way he speaks to you.”
“Hey, if I want that promotion to team leader—which comes with a raise—I’m going to need to do all I can do to impress him. If that means reprinting a dozen lists in bigger font sizes, I’m all for it.”
Prisha smirks at me. “And remind me, how long exactly have you been waiting for this theoretical promotion?”
Two years. I just give her half a smile. “I gotta finish this in five minutes. Actually, two and a half now.” Then I resume my work without answering her question. After a sigh and a shaking of her head, she does the same.
The marketing firm we work for—Bold Brands Marketing Firm—is situated cozily on the seventh floor of an office building on the busy cluster-fuck intersection of 29th and Quincy Street. When five o’clock rolls around, Prisha and I take the elevator to the first floor, where we engage in a post-work activity that’s become our way to blow off steam:
Hitting up the gym.
It’s called Jesse’s Fitness. Don’t ask who Jesse is. No one knows, and no one’s met him, but he’s got a privately-owned gym leased out on the first floor of the building our marketing firm is in. And after being offered discounted memberships, of course a number of us took the bite. So there I am, running on side-by-side treadmills with Prisha, plus three others from the office who joined us today, including our friend Juan.
Well, the term “running” is being used loosely here; we look more like five bored soccer moms powerwalking.
Actually, even “powerwalking” is stretching it. We’ve got our phones out, skimming our social media feeds, and cracking jokes to each other about the latest trending hash-tags. Even when we’re at the gym blowing off steam, we’re still working. We’re the opposite of the usual clientele, which seems to be buff gay men. We spend an hour at the gym every day and don’t ever break a sweat.
“I’m going to shower at home,” says Prisha after our hour’s up and she gathers her things to go, wrapping her pink-corded ear buds around her hand. “Are we still on for Dakota’s party this weekend?”
“Definitely. Can you cover a gift from us if I pay for half? You know I’m bad at—”
“Gift-giving, yes, already have it covered. The gift’s free, courtesy of my mother and her obsession lately with making beaded jewelry, so you owe me nothing. The jewelry is right up Dakota’s alley.” She hoists her bag over a shoulder. “You really are such a terrible gift-giver. Do you remember where I got these?” she asks me, lifting her pink ear buds. “You. Birthday, last year. And I got you a bag of that imported candy from India you like, plus that reversible pink-blue octopus plushie you probably snuggle with every night. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”