I return to my chair and slide back behind the desk and open the messaging app.
Me
If MD asks me one more time to straighten those magazines, I’m stapling them together
Ivy
Micro Dick clearly doesn’t have anything better to do
I press my lips together to stop myself laughing out loud, because I am still at work and reputations are fragile things.
I adjust my headset, glance at the seating area. Perfect. Untouchable. Waiting patiently for its next pointless critique.
The moment barely settles before footsteps approach. Sensible heels. Purposeful. Expensive.
I look up to see Nina Dubois gliding towards reception, one arm cradling a tiny, trembling Chihuahua like it’s a couture accessory rather than a dog. Its eyes fix on me immediately. Judgemental. Unblinking. I feel assessed.
“Christa,” Nina says warmly, as if we’re old friends who brunch. “Good, you’re here.”
I place my headset on the desk and smile. Obviously. I always do.
The Chihuahua emits a sound somewhere between a sniff and a threat.
“I’ve ordered a few things for my in-laws,” Nina continues, adjusting the dog so it can better observe its kingdom. “They’re arriving at the parcel shop round the corner. Would you mind collecting them when you go on your lunch break?”
This is the point where, theoretically, I could say no.
This is also the point where, realistically, I absolutely will not.
“Of course,” I say, already nodding. Pleasant. Helpful. Entirely complicit. Who cares what it actually says in my job description.
“They’re not heavy,” she adds quickly. “Just a few boxes. Oh, and they’ll need signing for.”
Naturally they will.
“And, if it’s raining,” she goes on, “perhaps pop them in a bag? The boxes are white.”
I glance at the Chihuahua. It bares its teeth at me. Or smirks. Hard to tell.
“No problem,” I say. “I’ll pop out at lunch.”
“Wonderful,” Nina says, genuinely pleased. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She leans down, the dog’s tiny jumper brushing against the desk.
“Isn’t she marvellous?” Nina coos to the Chihuahua.
The Chihuahua continues to stare at me, unmoved.
Nina straightens, waves vaguely in my direction, and floats off down the corridor, dog tucked under her arm like a very small, very angry baguette.
I sit there for a moment.
Just a moment.
Then I exhale slowly through my nose and check the time.
I do not sigh. Sighing suggests dissatisfaction.
