The Hating Game

Alan is pink and pleased when I bring out the cake. He’s a crusty old Bexley from somewhere in the bowels of the finance section, which makes me feel even better about making the effort for him. I’ve passed a pretty frosting-covered peace offering over the fence between the two camps. It’s how we Gamins roll. In Bexleyville they probably mark birthdays with a new calculator battery.

The room is crowded with latecomers leaning against the walls and perched on the low windowsill. The buzzing chatter is overwhelming compared to the silence of the tenth floor.

Joshua hasn’t touched the wedges of cake that sit within arm’s reach. He’s not a snacker or even an eater. I fill our cavernous office with the rhythmic sounds of my carrot crunching and apple biting. Ziplocs of popcorn and little pots of yogurt disappear into my bottomless pit. I demolish tiny crunchy smorgasbords every day, and in contrast Joshua consumes peppermints. He’s twice my size for heaven’s sake. He’s not human.

When I checked the cake, I’d groaned out loud. Of ALL the possible cake decorations the bakery could have used. You guessed it.

A consummate mind reader, Joshua leans forward and takes a strawberry. He scrapes away the icing and looks at the little blob of ivory on his thumb. What will he do? Suck it? Wipe his thumb with a monogrammed handkerchief? He must sense my anticipation because his eyes cut to me. My face heats and I look away.

I quickly ask Margery about her son’s progress learning the trumpet (slow), and Dean’s knee surgery (soon). They’re flattered that I remember, and reply with smiles. I guess it’s true that I’m always observing, listening, and collecting trivia. But not for any nefarious purpose. It’s mainly because I’m a lonely loser.

I catch up with Keith regarding his granddaughter (growing) and Ellen’s kitchen renovation (nightmarish). All the while, the following plays in the back of my head in a loop. Eat your heart out, Joshua Templeman. I’m lovely. Everyone likes me. I’m part of this team. You’re all alone.

Danny Fletcher from the cover design team signals to get my attention from across the boardroom table. “I watched the documentary you recommended.”

I wrack my brains and come up blank. “Oh, um? Which?”

“It was a couple of all-staffs ago. We were talking about a documentary you’d watched about da Vinci on the History Channel. I downloaded it.”

I make a lot of small talk in my role. It never occurred to me anyone was listening. There’s an intricate sketch in the margin of his notepad and I sneakily try to look at it.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, yeah. He was pretty much the ultimate human being, wasn’t he?”

“No argument there. I’m such a failure—I haven’t invented anything.”

Danny laughs, bright and loud. I look from his notepad to his face. This is probably the first time I’ve looked at him properly. I get a little kick of surprise in my stomach when I flip off the autopilot switch. Oh. He’s cute.

“Anyway, did you know I’m finishing up here soon?”

“No, why?” The little flirt-bubble inside my stomach bursts. Game over.

“A buddy and I are developing a new self-publishing platform. My last day is in a couple of weeks. This is my last all-staff.”

“Well that’s a shame. Not for me. For B and G.” My clarification is as subtle as a love-struck schoolgirl.

Trust me to not notice a cute guy in my midst. He’s been sitting right opposite me, for heaven’s sake. Now he’s leaving. Le sigh. It’s time I took a proper look at Danny Fletcher. Attractive, lean, and in shape, with soft blond curls cropped close to his head. He’s not tall, which suits me fine. He’s a Bexley, but not of the typical variety. His shirt, while crisp like a birthday card, is rolled at the cuffs. His tie is subtly patterned with tiny scissors and clipboards.

“Nice tie.”

He looks down and grins. “I do a LOT of cutting and pasting.”

I look sideways at the design team, mainly Bexleys, who all dress like funeral directors. I understand his decision to leave B&G, the most boring design team on this planet.

Next, I look at Danny’s left hand. Every finger is bare, and he drums them lightly against the table.

“Well, if you ever want to collaborate on an invention, I’m available.” His smile is mischievous.

“You’re freelancing as an inventor as well as reinventing self-publishing?”

“Exactly.” He clearly appreciates my clever wordplay.

I’ve never had anyone flirt with me at work. I sneak a look at Joshua. He’s talking to Mr. Bexley.

“It’ll be hard to invent something the Japanese haven’t thought of.”

He considers for a moment. “Like those little mops babies can wear on their hands and feet?”