Date Me Like You Mean It

“Oh, well…I was just hoping to introduce myself,” I say, fidgeting with my posters.

“Of course. Why else would you be in my office right now?” She laughs at herself. “Tell me your name.”

“Madison Lane. I’m the office manager here.”

She frowns like she doesn’t like that information.

“Why on earth would anyone do that job?”

Her candor catches me totally off guard.

“It’s…well, that was the only job available when I applied to work here.”

She hums. “Is that a dream of yours? To manage an office?”

“I…enjoy it.”

She waves her hand, and Deepak steps back. She tucks the sheet around herself and sits up so she can get a better look at me. I stare at the ceiling in an effort to give her privacy until I know she’s situated the sheet sufficiently. I guess I’ll have to add sheets to the DO NOT WEAR poster during my next presentation.

“Deepak, dear, you’ve been wonderful,” she says, dismissing him. “Same time next week?”

He bends to deliver a reverent bow in her direction before excusing himself from the room without a word.

She sighs in bliss when he’s gone. “Deepak is an absolute godsend. I don’t know what I’d do without my weekly rubdown. He’s more than worth the fee he charges to fly down from Portland.”

I try not to openly gawk at this information. She flies in a masseuse from the west coast every single week to give her a massage?!

She walks around the table and heads toward a small Smeg refrigerator sitting beside an overgrown fiddle leaf tree. She retrieves a pre-made green smoothie and holds up a second bottle for me.

“Here, drink this. It’s celery juice mixed with a variety of roots. Amazing for your immune system.”

Knowing I can’t turn her down, I accept the beverage. When I take my first sip, I have to refrain from gagging. It tastes like dirt. Worse—dirt mixed with spoiled garbage. She notices my reaction.

“You’ll get used to the flavor,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I actually love it. Now drink up and tell me, what is it you need? Did you already say?”

She’s heading into her en suite bathroom now, presumably to put her clothes back on, but I could be wrong.

“I was just stopping by to introduce myself and make myself available should you need any help settling in.”

I sound nervous, and it’s because I am. What am I supposed to do with this damn juice? If I drink it, I’ll throw up. If I don’t drink it, I’ll run the risk of offending her. I’m contemplating whether I should just pour it out onto her potted plant, but what if I accidentally kill the thing?

“Ho-hum. Yes.” She sighs from inside the bathroom. “I suppose I’ll make use of you. Cassie was my old assistant, but she’s left me.”

“Did she stay at your old company?”

“No, of course not. She wanted to move to Tibet to live with the monks, and who was I to stop her? After all, I’m the one who first introduced her to Buddhism. Do you practice?”

I’m searching around for a trash can to stow my juice in when she pops her head out of the bathroom.

I jump a mile in the air.

“Practice?” I chirp. “Er…what exactly?”

“Buddhism.”

“Oh…I’ve never…”

“They call it practicing because the work is never-ending. You’ll start doing sunrise yoga with me on Tuesday mornings. It’s so good for the soul.”

“Wow. Yeah, that sounds fun.”

I have no idea what’s happening, so I just agree to everything she’s saying. Dirt juice? Great! Sunrise yoga? Count me in!

She seems to be a thousand steps ahead of me at any given moment.

“Now…where to begin,” she says, disappearing back into the bathroom. “I don’t want to ever see you wearing yellow. It’s my least favorite color.”

She returns from the bathroom in a vintage black Chanel shift dress she’s paired with leopard flats. Cartier bangles clink on her wrists. Thick black-framed glasses perch on her thin nose. She’s fabulous and terrifying. I want to run away as much as I want to find a seat and stay glued to it.

She breezes past me on the way to her standing-height desk. It’s then that I notice there is not a single chair in her entire office.

“My hours are erratic,” she says, starting to type on her keyboard. “I don’t believe in nine to five. I let my body dictate my schedule. Look at the walls—do you see a clock in here?” After I shake my head, she continues. “That’s because time is a social construct.”

I feel like I should be writing this down—no clocks, no yellow—but I don’t have a pen or paper, just the clunky poster boards I shift under my arms as Elise continues a rambling diatribe that seems to have no end in sight.

It’s going to be a long day.“To Maddie and another day surviving the madness!” Mia says, holding up her beer.