“Also, I got you this,” she said, and then placed a brown bag on my desk next to my coffee.
I glanced at the brown bag and frowned.
We were a little more than a month into her employment and so far everything had been running smoothly. Better than I could have ever expected given all those Ivy league and MBA candidates I’d interviewed. None of whom had actually wanted to be my assistant. All of them had only wanted to become richer.
Then there was Anna.
Almost painfully thin, with the dark circles under her eyes. Her clothes hadn’t fit right. The cheap heels she’d bought clearly had been hurting her feet.
Everything about her screamed that she’d been someone who walked through the wrong door. And up to this moment, I still wasn’t sure why I had entertained her for even a second. Her non-existent experience, one page resume which featured waitressing and valet parking.
It hadn’t been pity that had moved me to hire her. I was immune to pity.
Then what?
Every day for the past five weeks she’d been on time, coffee in hand, and papers like I asked for. I would give her what we calledThe List.Things I needed done that day. And she would walk me through my morning meeting schedule.
Only the morning schedule though. Because the whole day was too intimidating, she’d decided.
Which was why the brown bag on my desk jerked me out of my sense of habit.
I was a creature of habits and I didn’t care for variations.
“What is that?” I asked softly.
“It’s a poppy seed bagel. Hot from the oven from this new bagel place next to our building. I thought you would like it with your coffee.”
I could feel the reaction in my body. A hot flush over my skin. A swell of nausea. That bitter taste on the back of my tongue.
A signal that the anxiety attack wasn’t far behind.
What the fuck? I hadn’t had one of these attacks in years. I’d told my now fired therapist that I’d been cured.
“I didn’t ask you to get me a bagel,” I said softly, as I measured my breaths.
“I know,” she said, fanning out the newspapers behind me. Oblivious to my inner turmoil. “It was spontaneous. A gesture of sorts. A ‘thanks, boss’ for our five-week anniversary. I think it’s been working out pretty well, don’t you? I mean, who knew I would rock at this and you haven’t even once asked me to give you a blow job.”
I didn’t hear much of what she said over the ringing in my ears.
Order. Schedule. Habit. Order. Schedule. Habit.
This was how I’d survived.
Gestures. Pity. Caring. And worst of all - smothering. Had sent me into a spiral of depression, anxiety and anger I’d barely managed to crawl out of.
But I had. I’d done it. Through sheer force of will and the ability to keep every social contact in my world in its proper context.
I told Anna to have my coffee and papers ready for me every day. I gave her a budget for this responsibility.
The bagel. The bagel would have been extra. What did she call it? A gesture?
I didn’t want her fucking gesture.
“You got me a bagel,” I said. “I didn’t want a bagel.”
When I felt confident I had my breathing under control, I looked up at her. She didn’t look crestfallen or disappointed. She didn’t look like a puppy I’d kicked. In truth, she seemed completely unaffected.
How dare her?
