“Hey.” I grin at her, unable to smother my foolishly wide grin. Gone is the glum mood that hovered above me when I had to turn down her invitation. In its place is this cheerful ray of sunshine that could power me through the rest of my workday without a peep of a complaint from my lips.
I take the food from her and lead the way to my cubicle. There’s a lone chip bag sitting on the corner of my desk, I missed along with a paper cup with about half of my coffee still in it. Her eyes scan over the remnants of my very quick snack break and her lips twist to one side.
“What did I say about a proper lunch?” she asks, pinching the Doritos bag between her index finger and thumb. She rattles it and the remaining crumbs rattle inside, reminding me about her concern over my lunch habits.
“I got hungry,” I answer with an innocent shrug.
She eyes me with judgment, though a coltish tilt at the corners of her lips shows how little threat lies behind her steely demeanor. She turns to open the plastic bag and gingerly removes two plastic bowls. “Ramen,” she announces, opening the lids and letting out the appetizing scent of miso, pork belly, and green onions. “Just like I promised.” My stomach chooses that moment to embarrass the shit out of me and grumble loudly.
Grace looks at me with wide eyes, and I can almost see the muscles in her jaw fight the laugh creeping up her face.
“I guess those chips weren’t as satisfying as I hoped,” I sheepishly confess.
She gives in, giving me a full giggle. She reaches out and squeezes my forearm. A reassuring touch that dissipates the embarrassment from my very vocal stomach. She grabs a pair of chopsticks and hands them to me. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
I walk over to the cubicle next to mine. Craig’s cubicle is a lot neater than mine. Sticky notes sit at the corner of his metal mesh desk organizer—each stack the canary yellow kind—with exactly four retractable gel pens, all black ink. A stapler and tape dispenser are lined up along the far edge as if he measured the number of millimeters between his office supplies and the rounded corner of his desk. And, of course, there’s a chair that’s just as impeccable as his space with a cushioned bottom and back support. Rumor has it, Craig threatened a workers’ comp claim if he didn’t get the chair he asked for. I wheel it over to my cubicle, reminding myself to tuck it back under his desk exactly the way I found it, and pat the seat, gesturing for Grace to sit.
“I get the fancy chair?” she comments, a little taken aback by my gentlemanly deed.
“Of course,” I answer. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t consider your comfort?”
She leans back, rocking back and forth while testing out her seat’s quality and comfort. After one more squeaky lean backward and an approving nod, she picks up her own set of chopsticks.
I settle into my chair. The one with minimal back support and about an inch too low for my comfort due to a broken lever. I perch my ankle over my knee as she faces me, and we both start poking away at our ramen bowls. We eat mostly in silence with the mix of our slurping and quiet chewing until Grace’s curiosity has her roaming over the work on my desk.
“So, what do all these numbers mean?” She pokes her finger at a colorful pie chart, Sentry Investments written in its old, outdated font across the top. It’s smudged with a few coffee stains and what looks like ketchup or marinara, and I know the few pages underneath it in the binder are probably just as equally grubby.
“Well, if you look past the dried sauce and questionable liquids, it’s all just a jumble of statistical data from two years ago,” I explain. “My boss is having us go over it. We’re adding more recent data and creating new charts. It’s a lot of tedious work and time-consuming.”
“Hmm,” she responds, her eyes still searching over the jumble of colors and numbers. “Sounds a little…”
“Boring?”
“Intimidating.”
I smirk, twirling my chopsticks around my noodles. A diversion tactic at the mention that what I do can be intimidating in the least. “I don’t know about intimidating,” I say to the steam rising above my food.
“Well, it’s intimidating to me.”
We sit in silence for a moment longer. The noodles in our bowls dwindle down, leaving behind the appetizing oily broth I’m ready to slurp down. Grace seems to be enjoying her food just as much. I walk over to Olive’s desk at the reception area where I know she stores a few bottles of water and take two before returning to Grace’s side. I extend a bottle to her.
“Thirsty?”
“Thank you.”
We both move in synchrony as we uncap our respective drinks, and the soft guzzle is followed by thirst quenching gulps as we peer at each other over the plastic edges of the bottles.
“So,” I say, cutting into our silence with an airy curiosity. “What did you think about the movie?”
She slams her bottle onto the desk, a splash of water sloshing onto the same paper that’s already stained with other various food items. “Oh, shit,” she exclaims. She reaches for a napkin and starts dabbing at her little mess. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “I’m sure a little water isn’t going to ruin it.” I gesture at the other spills and splatters made by my boss to prove my point. “But you were saying?”
“Oh my god,” she states with zeal. “You got me hooked.”
“Yeah?” I ask through a thoroughly tickled laugh. “So you’re going to continue your little movie marathon?”
“Yup,” she answers with a smug nod. “I already got some candles laid out in my living room and a bottle of Riesling chilling in my fridge. I may even whip up a batch of brownies.”
