“Okay, well, just don’t look straight into her eyes…” she teases back.
“Knock, knock,” a man’s voice calls out. Julia and I both turn around to see Dex, who’s wearing a belt with a large wooden stick jutting out from the center of it. On the very tip of the stick, hangs a green plant with little red berries all over it, swinging freely back and forth. He flinches and scrunches up his noise when he sees me, “Oh, it’s you. Gail wants to see you.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” I say, turning down the screen of my computer. There is no way in hell I’m walking out of this cubicle with my work displayed out in the open; trustworthy is not a word in Dex’s vocabulary.
When I stand up, there’s barely any room left in the small space that is my so-called workstation. The three of us are all inside the tiny enclosure and Dex is smirking, leaning crotch first under that stupid looking… “Ew, is that mistletoe?” I ask, appalled.
“Fuck yeah, it is. Hey Julia, you wanna kiss me under the mistletoe?” he asks, pointing to his crotch, chuckling.
“Like you have anything there to kiss,” Julia laughs, shoving him out of the small space.
“You’re disgusting,” I say narrowing my eyes at him.
“You’re just jealous I didn’t ask you,” he smirks.
“Dex, the only time I would ever even think of your invisible dick and diseased nutsack is if I wanted to use it for a punching bag.”
“You’re so weird and aggressive,” he says, backing away with his hands up. “Hey Jules, I gotta joke for you,” he says following Julia into her cubicle. “How do you know when there’s a snowman in your bed?”
“Good luck, Jane,” Julia calls over the wall, and then laughs at whatever the answer was to Dex’s joke.
“Right, sure,” I say softly as I flatten down my clothes and drag myself into the hallway.
With each step I take, my stomach rolls with a strange unwanted dread. I know this impromptu meeting isn’t going to be about work. I’m one of the best writers at the magazine. It’s more likely to be about the sullen change in my attitude in the office lately. Well, ever since the whole “One Night Stand” article. Or the fact that I complained to HR about Dex one too many times this month. How am I supposed to remember he’s writing an article on sexual harassment in the workplace?
Taking a deep breath, I knock softly on Gail’s open door and step inside. “Julia said you wanted to see me?” I ask, clearing my throat.
Gail’s large bird eyes widen dramatically as they roam from my toes to somewhere two inches above my head. I sigh quietly at her idiotic expression. I mean, I get it. I understand what it must look like. I am in oversized sweatpants and a tee that has shit-colored coffee stains where my nipples should be, and a pair of ripped Converse that I’ve owned since freshman year of high school. There is a well-chewed pencil sticking straight out of my messy bun, and when I say messy bun, I mean a giant knot of unwashed and uncombed hair on the top of my head. There’s some sort of serious dreadlock thing happening up there. People need to give me space, I’m mourning the loss of Mr. Perfect and I can tell no one about it.
Gail clutches her chest and gasps theatrically, as if she’s going for an academy award. “What is that? What happened? Did someone die? Did you go through a bad breakup or something?”
Oh, God if you only knew.
“No, my love life is in shambles, and the last time I had a date, it was a Tinder special that was tweeted live, remember?” I snap. I’ve been trending since the article got published. I even have a fan club.
“What did you want?” I ask, leaning my back against the frame of her door.
“Your hair brushed. At the very least,” she bites, gesturing with her hands for me to sit down in one of the chairs that faces her desk.
Ungraciously, I trudge to the seat and slump into it like a sulky teenager.
“You haven't responded to the invitation to our annual costume ball,” she says directly to the coffee stain on my shirt with a curl of her lip.
“No, I haven't,” I say, defiantly folding my hands across my chest.
“Well, you’re going,” she snarls, wrinkling her nose.
“I don't think that's—”
“Youaregoing,” she interrupts, leaning forward and squinting her bird eyes at me.
“I really don't—”
“Yes, youdon’t,but youwill,” she snaps, slapping her palm over her desk. “My holiday extravaganzas are simply the best. And you’ll forget all about your failed Twitter interlude.”
“No way. I’m not going. And I won’t be forgetting the most embarrassing night of my life any time soon.”
“What you need is to do more out-of-the-box stuff, Jane. You lack personality and fun.” She claps her hands excitedly and nods. “Trust me. This is coming from someone who has taken more than a few proverbial dips in the company pool. My costume parties are perfect for tapping workplace ass and no one will ever know. Your Twitter boy will be quickly forgotten. Dex? Gavin? Oh my, Gavin has the biggest, thickest—”
