Page 46 of Down My Chimney

The letter of complaint I’d been assigned was for an electric shaver that gave such a close shave, it was hard to use it without cutting yourself.

“How the hell am I supposed to market bleeding as a desirable trait?” I grumbled to myself one Thursday afternoon in September.

I was back at the taco shop, waiting to meet up with Marika. It was one of those rare, early-semester weeks with no impending essays or papers. This marketing plan was the biggest assignment on my plate, and it was the only class I didn’t need extra help in. But Marika had insisted on keeping our regularly scheduled study date, and since I owed the fact that I was still in school to her, it wasn’t like I could say no.

“Who’s bleeding?” she asked, joining me at my table in the corner.

I looked up in surprise, then smiled. “Me, if I can’t figure out how to sell this shaver. Oh, you got more chips. You’re amazing.”

Coach was still on us about optimizing our diets, but I didn’t plan on giving up snack food any time soon. I picked up a chip from the basket Marika set down, still glistening with oil from the fryer. You’d have to be crazy to give up something like that willingly.

I popped it in my mouth, but my smile faded as Marika sat down. She crossed her arms and gave me a long look.

“Uh oh,” I said, swallowing the last bits of chip. “What did I do now?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That’s the look people give me when they’re about to tell me I fucked up. Trust me, I know it well.”

“You didn’t fuck up.” She shook her head. “But I did want to talk to you about something.”

“And you got me fresh chips as a bribe?” I arched an eyebrow. “To keep me from reacting badly?”

“I’m not sure it counts as a bribe if the chips are free,” she said, “but, yeah, kinda.”

I wasn’t sure what I could have done. It was too early in the semester for my grades to be that bad. But her face was so serious that it tied my stomach in knots.

“Okay. Well, um, whenever you’re ready.”

Marika exhaled. “I need you to tell people I’m not your girlfriend.”

“You need—what?” I must have heard her wrong. “But I never told people you were.”

“You didn’t need to.” She sighed. “Apparently, all you needed to do was post a few pictures of us online, and people started filling in the blanks on their own.”

“Wait, really?” My brow furrowed.

Sure, I’d taken some pictures with her, but I’d never said anything to imply we were dating. I’d referred to her as a study buddy, a friend, and, last week, as a person with excellent taste in food-themed socks, which had earned me a DM from a novelty knitwear company. But never a girlfriend.

“Do you really not read your comments?” Marika asked.

“Not really?” I smiled apologetically. “There are just too many of them, and if I respond to one, I feel like I’d have to respond to them all.”

“Well, that explains it.” She pulled Instagram up on her phone and brought up my profile. “Look at this. Every time you post a picture of me, more and more people say that we look cute together, ask how long we’ve been dating, or say how lucky I am.”

My eyes went wide as I scrolled through the comments on our most recent picture together.

“Wow. I had no idea.”

“Yeah. Which would be weird enough on its own, considering we’re not together, but the truly unhinged people are the ones who don’t tell me I’m lucky. Instead, they send me messages calling me an ugly slut who doesn’t deserve you.”

“Wait,what?” I sat upright in my chair. “Are you serious?”

“Here, look.”

She pulled up her DMs and handed the phone to me. Her message requests were filled with anonymous accounts, sending abusive messages.

“What the fuck,” I whispered as I read through them. “This is awful, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

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