Jane’s friend is the pinnacle of color matching. She wears a blazer and flared pants in exactly the same ash brown shade as her eyes and hair. Her manicured nails and her milky coffee appear to be in sync. Altogether, she seems like great friendship material. She could be a true source of solidarity. Like hardwood flooring.
“Hi,” I say, tossing my bag on the floor, making space at Bulan’s expense.
“Are you Sammy?” Jane’s friend sits. “I heard that you snore.”
Damn it, Bulan.
“I’ve ordered special nasal strips, but the shipping company lost them,” I lie. “Last I heard, they were in Toronto.”
“Oh.” The girl unwraps her sandwich. Turkey. Cheese. Multigrain bread. A banana, because she’s trying to be healthy, but not trying too hard. This is what I’ll order tomorrow. “That’s far.”
“It is,” I say.
“I think Kansas City is farther,” says Jane. That’s where her family lives, and I can see her doing the mental math. “By a thousand miles?”
“I can google it,” says Jane’s friend. She doesn’t go for her phone, though. I guess none of us care enough to. “Didn’t Desmond say we have an account in KC?”
“Huh, maybe,” says Jane.
Hoping to smooth over the ensuing awkward silence, I say, “I’ve always wanted to visit the Plains. They sound nice. Or at least, nice enough.”
“They’re all right,” Jane agrees. “Really open. Wide and stuff.”
“The jet stream makes it perfect for tornadoes.” Jane’s friend shudders. “I hate that. It sounds so dangerous.”
“Yes!” I exclaim, finally finding my footing in this conversation. “Tornadoes are the worst of all natural disasters, right? They come out of absolutely nowhere and ruin everything!”
Jane laughs noncommittally.
“Most storm systems aren’t strong enough to yield tornadoes. The ones that do touch down are usually no more than F-1 or F-2. Plus, they hit in cornfields more than cities. And we have tornado shelters, so. It’s not a big deal.”
“Oh, I guess it isn’t bad, then,” says Jane’s nameless friend, who still hasn’t introduced herself, and probably at this point never will. She looks down at her phone and wipes her chin with a napkin.
“Did you see this meme? Oh my god,” she says. I wait for her to flip her phone and show me what she’s watching, but she doesn’t. Shifting on her seat, Jane silently joins in watching the screen. At one point, she sends a vague frown at her dip-powdered nails. Nothing’s wrong with them. They’re fine.
When I finish my own gritty sandwich, I pack up and return to my work desk. But instead of logging back in, I stare up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in it until Bulan rolls out of my bag and bites my ankle.
I let out a sharp yip, but no one on the sixth floor pays me any attention. Behold, the power of noise-canceling headphones.
“What are you doing?” Bulan asks.
“Thinking,” I whisper back.
“Well, that seems boring.”
“No more boring than our lunch conversation.”
“Yeah, what was that?” barks Bulan. “Didn’t you tell me it was fun to be a young twentysomething in New York?”
“Be quiet. And yes,” I hiss. I was promised, repeatedly, that EFG was fun by a half-dozen recruiters and coworkers during interview season. They said work would be spectacular. That we’d have pizza parties in-office, complete with Kool-Aid, and make meaningful impacts for our clients. But, like most of the other non-nepo-baby newly hired staff, I’ve only been trusted with reconciling A/R. Though satisfying, it’s certainly not spectacular. The better word I’d use for it is “repetitive.” And “lots.” Because it’s usually late when I finish work. The best part of my day is coming home to Jane. And it’s almost like… Jane isn’t enough.
She’s just… when we hang out, there are a lot of screens involved.
On the weekends, my study sessions for the CPA exam don’t fill as much time as I’m used to having filled. I wonder if I should get on a dating app to stop daydreaming about Hanry. To keepbusy. To feel less itchy, less unsettled all the time.
During meetings, I keep catching myself sketchingtable settingswithout meaning to. Sometimes I even imagine coworkers falling in love, and I wonder if I can guess what type of wedding they might have. Bohemian? Beach?Bridgerton-inspired? No. It’s always something traditional. I bet they’d search no farther for venues than directly across the street.
Not that I should judge: I’m struggling to daydream anything romantic for myself. There aren’t cute boys to stare at here at work. Sure, a few of them might be slender enough to compete with Jungkook, but I haven’t met any single men of the handsome, lumberjack-esque variety. They all seem… crisp and square. They remind me of stale white bread. Tasteless and forgettable. They barely hold substance in my mind.
