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WILL
He has no ideawhyhe chose to reply to her email. Maybe a part of him was caught off guard by the enthusiasm in her message, the almost-naiveté of her words and tone. Maybe he was pulled in like a moth to a flame wanting so very much to feel the same passion she exhibited— the one he had lost long ago, or more accurately never even felt.
Or maybe the darkness inside him craves to tell her the truth: that this entire industry is a nightmare and she should get out while she still can. That the enthusiasm that so clearly bounced off his computer screen is too precious for it to wane as quickly as it will.
Either way, he’s at a loss. One thing is for sure, there is no way he can deny that, even based on their very limited email exchange, the entire interaction made his day a little more tolerable.
2
SOMETIMES WE JUST NEED A FRIEND
It means I’ve been suffocating and in dire need of a breath of fresh air. And I get the feeling that’s what you are.
“And what wasthatsupposed to mean, anyway?” I mutter to myself as I pick up a couple of oranges from the produce section. I sniff them while my mind wanders back to the odd email exchange betweenWill, whoever he was, and myself. When I tried stalking him through LinkedIn like any rational, normal person would, I didn’t find anyone by that name and definitely not one working for Stevenson.
It’s honestly surprising. Stevenson is one of the oldest and most luxurious department stores in the US—so much so that Sartoria almost lost their minds whentheyapproacheduswanting to be our client a few months ago. They wanted us to help them develop their own in-house clothing brand to sit next to other designer, high-end brands and the opportunity had the company in a tizzy—we all wanted to scream it from the rooftops. Any person in fashion, at least. If I hadn’t signed an NDA regarding our company making their branded clothes, I’d certainly be doing the same thing by adding it to my LinkedIn page (especially since this is my first “serious” job, as Molly would say).
“Excuse me, miss?” A pimply teenager with dark, curly hair interrupts my musings. “You—You can’t justsniffthe produce like that.”
I gawk at him and then back to the orange in my hand. “I’m testing the quality of the produce, my man. To see how fresh it is.”
“Right, but your nose is almost making physical contact with the fruit, and we really can’t allow you to?—”
I sigh deeply and lift a hand to stop him, not wanting to argue. “‘Nough said. It’s going in my basket. See?” And really, can I blame him? I wouldn’t like eating an orange that someone else had sniffed, either.
He exhales, his entire body relaxing. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking nervously over his shoulder. “My boss was the one who made me come over here and practice my… assertiveness.” He winces like our conversation caused him physical pain.
I laugh once. “I understand.” Slapping him once on the shoulder, I smile at him. “I’ve been in the same boat, but I promise you it will get better.”Or so they tell me.
It’s not like working with Lena has been atotalnightmare—it’s not like my job has taken over my life, and I’ve been working crazy hours. Surprisingly, she’s been very respectful about keeping work outside office hours to a minimum—something I pray never changes. But she certainly isn’t someone easy to work for.
This morning, for example, was no walk in the park. I made the colossal mistake of handing her some documents in a branded black folder instead of a normal manila one. This ultimately led to a ten minute lecture on attention to detail, the importance of continuity and consistency, and good taste.
Sigh.
Walking away from the fruit stand, I hope both me and the supermarket kid will soon be able to find some kind of balance or happiness with our bosses. Me in particular because I really do love what I do.
It isn’t long before I reach my place—a sixth floor walk-up studio apartment in Chinatown whose lease I took over from Molly’s college roommate’s uncle’s friend. A sub, sub, sublet. It came with peeling paint, water damage, and a colony of ants, but at least it’s rent-controlled, right next to the subway station (a luxury in New York City), and pet friendly.
The latter is the most important part, of course, seeing as there’s no way I would ever abandon Ginger, my twenty-five pound Maine Coon love of my life. Named after her orange coat and Ginger Rogers, she’s the best present I’ve ever received from the person I’ve loved the most—my grandmother.
Ginger was one of the last things my grandmother gave me before she was diagnosed. When things werereallybad, the moody little rascal never left my side—especially on nights I would cry myself to sleep. Ginger would curl herself in my arms and let me hold her until I calmed down.
I hear my favorite girl meow as I attempt to unlock the two locks and deadbolt before kicking the door open. The layers upon layers of old paint cause the decrepit piece of wood to stick, but beating it down usually works. A regular person would complain about having to put in so much effort, especially after hiking six flights of stairs every day, but it truly is the cheapest workout around. There’s no denying my ass has tightened, my calves look great, and I’m in the best shape of my life—all because I’m broke AF and New York City is basically unlivable. I guess you could say it’s the bright side to the housing crisis?
I try as often as I can to do so. See the bright side in everything, I mean. Which, living in New York City, makes me not so likable all of the time. Not to perpetuate the stereotype of a “true New Yorker,” but most people I meet around here are jaded and angry. So when I smile and attempt to reframe certain circumstances to make them more tolerable, it’s not always so well-received. Some people just want to sit in misery, whereas I’ve had so much of it, I would probably not be able to handle any more of it. My body justneedsto repel it in order to survive. In any other story, this is where you’d start the slide show of my sad background and cue the tears. But that’s not who I am.
My point is: I try my best not to sweat the small stuff. Which is why I don’t mind kicking my door and jiggling the keys a million times to get it open, because as soon as I do, I dump my stuff on the ground and Ginger jumps in my arms, rubbing her face against mine.
“And who could ever be depressed or angry when they’ve got you to come home to, huh?” I ask her, baby talk in full force. She purrs in my arms as I rock her like a baby. “Ilooooveyou.”
Yes, I am your regular crazy cat lady. And proud of it.
I set her down carefully and triple lock the door, making sure the chain is locked regardless of how flimsy it looks. Would it be able to stop an intruder from busting into my house? Probably not! But you never know.
Ginger follows me into the kitchen with a happy trot, tail in the air. It’s as I’m pouring her wet food into her pink bowl that I hear the familiar sound of the email notification on my phone. I tense, back ramrod straight. Part of me wants to ignore the email, not wanting to risk the aforementioned work/life balance I was just internally marveling at no less than half an hour ago. I know I won’t be able to help myself. Sure, Lena is terrifying, but she’s still super smart and a badass, and I want her to like me. Plus, the other part of me wants to know what it can be, because in the short time I’ve been working at Sartoria, I’ve become a bit obsessed with what I do.
Heaving a sigh, I lose the battle with myself and reach for my phone, expecting a demanding email from the woman who makes my blood run cold from nerves but also swell with pride when I see her command a room and kick ass. (Note to self: research Stockholm syndrome—there’s a chance I might be suffering from a mild case)
