“You’re mad because she’s a better, younger, smarter version of you. No judgment from me. Just admit it, and we can clear the air.”
She’s silent for a moment. “You’re a horrible human being.” The words are a quiet, final observation.
“And you can’t in good conscience work for me anymore?” I ask hopefully.
Another pause. “I’ll make sure to order you a bigger lunch tomorrow.”
“Same place.”
That look again, the one that says a face full of broken glass and porcelain is in my near future. “Of course, Salinger.”
At eleven forty-seven that evening,I make the rounds to see which of my employees still remain at the office.
It’s quiet.
The cleaners have come and gone. None of the interns are still in the office, though several teams are still working.
Mandy’s dog is snoring loudly at her feet as she drafts email responses for me, writes memos, and assembles research. Her fingers with their chipped polish fly over the keys, the soft clicks mixing with the ubiquitous rain patter on the windows.
Whatever she’s trying to prove isn’t going to impress me.
My assistant clenches her jaw when I pass by her. “You’re so full of crap,” she says. Her typing speed doesn’t slow. “You aren’t staying here late to work—you just want to flirt with that girl.”
“Screw you. You don’t know what I’m doing.” Wishing I had a door to slam, I storm into my office and resist the urge to throw my chair through the wall.
On the other side of the glass wall, the corgi rolls over, and the snoring grows louder. Mandy shifts in her seat.
Leave.I beam silent thought waves at her.Just leave.
The numbers on the digital clock creep past midnight then into the early hours of the morning. Still, Mandy sits at her desk, typing at that unrelenting speed. She’s changed her shoes and is wearing oversize Crocs.
I make another round of the now-completely empty office.
We have a big meeting tomorrow—well, today. I need to shower, shave, change my clothes.
Mandy doesn’t even seem tired. What can she possibly have been typing for the last six hours? And how much longer is she staying?
Until I leave.The obvious answer.
Making a big show of collecting my briefcase and jacket then patting my pocket for my wallet and keys, I flick off the light switch to my office and slide the glass door closed.
Mandy continues to type. Her dog wakes up with a snort.
“Leaving already?” she calls as I head to the elevator.
“Meeting tomorrow.”
I hit the button for the elevator but don’t get in. Instead, I quietly ease open the stairwell door and gently shut it behind me.
The stairwell is flooded with the bright almost-blue LED lights. After being in the office for so long, it feels good to stretch my legs, and I take the stairs down two at a time.
On the sixth-floor landing, I pause. Far above me, a door slams. Rubber footsteps fall on the concrete stair treads.
Pressing back against the doorway, I wait.
The footsteps come closer, the dull bumps echoing and the bags she carries bouncing against her knees, as she slowly makes her way down the stairs. Why did she take the stairs with all that stuff and a dog who refuses to walk on its own?
She’s talking to the stupid dog, telling it, “It’s okay if you don’t feel up to the stairs, Pepper. I know it’s late and—”
