Page 18 of The Cyrano Situation
Better than yours, I think. About to try Ethiopian Yirgacheffe for the first time. I hear the floral notes are transcendent.
I hit send before I could second-guess my use of "transcendent". Was that too pretentious? But I was rewarded with an immediate response:
Oh my god, YES. The bergamot and jasmine notes will change your life. Let me know what you think. I'm invested now.
"Order for Cyril!"
I grabbed my coffee, took a cautious sip, and typed back:
It tastes like someone liquefied a garden. In a good way? I think?
Jules replied with three laughing emojis. I was getting better at interpreting emojis. These ones meant genuine amusement, not mockery. Progress.
The walk to the office felt lighter somehow. Four weeks ago, I would have been obsessively re-reading my texts with Jules, analyzing every word choice and punctuation mark, and probably would have consulted Hart about three times already this morning. Now I was... well, not exactly relaxed, but less panicked. The constant knot in my stomach when thinking about Jules had downgraded from "imminent aneurysm" to "mild discomfort."
I pushed through the glass doors of Pinnacle, nodding at the security guard.
"Morning, Cyril," he called. "Looking chipper today."
"Good coffee," I replied, holding up my cup.
The elevator was mercifully empty, giving me time to check my posture, straight but not rigid; my tie, perfectly centered; and my expression, neutral but not forbidding. The doors opened on the editorial floor, and I stepped out, immediately scanning the open workspace.
Hart wasn't at his desk yet. Not that I was looking for him. I just... noticed.
"Well, look who's actually smiling before noon," said Marlene, our senior editor, as she passed me in the hallway. "Hart's little matchmaking project must be going well."
I felt my ears burn. "It's not—I mean, we're just—"
"Save it, honey." She patted my arm. "Whatever Hart's doing, it's working. You've been positively glowing lately."
I cleared my throat. "I have a manuscript to review."
Marlene just laughed as I scurried to my office, face flaming.
Was I that obvious? Had the entire office been discussing my... what? My love life? The concept was so foreign I could barely form the thought.
I settled at my desk, booting up my computer and arranging my notepads in precise alignment with the edge of my desk. My phone buzzed again.
What are you reading right now? Work stuff or pleasure?
I smiled at Jules's question. This was comfortable territory.
Currently editing a historical fiction set in 1920s Paris. For pleasure, re-reading Ishiguro's "Remains of the Day" for the fourth time.
The response came quickly:
Remains of the Day!!! That repression! That longing! Those perfectly crafted sentences about nothing and everything! I could teach an entire semester on Stevens's inability to recognize his own emotions.
I grinned, typing back:
The precision of the prose is what gets me. Every word exactly where it should be.
Like you, I bet. Everything in its proper place.
I stared at that text for a long moment. Was that... flirting? It felt like flirting. I was 78% sure it was flirting.
A knock at my door made me jump.
