And balance
Shirin
how is this fighting our case, lipi
Lipi
The card is about things happening in their own time
It’s called divine timing
The idea that everything happens for a reason
??????
7
The next day, I try to head into Eternally Yours with a better attitude. Well, a better attitude about the job,notSalman being there. I can’t write off this assistantship just because I had an absolute shitshow of a day yesterday. I need to do this for Ma, after all. Salman is going to be my colleague for the rest of the summer and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can’t get him fired–I mean, I probably could, but not in any way that would be ethical–and I won’t be able to avoid him either, so I have no choice but to simply survive. It’s not how I anticipated spending my summer, but it seems that’s how it will have to go. I’ll just have to rework the schedule, is all. Every good organiser knows that sometimes things happen that are out of your control. I suppose that’s why I became such a planner in the first place. After Baba passed and my future changed from one with him in it to one without him, the only way I could find calm was to map out each day, needing the stability in a way I hadn’t before.
So even though Salman has now messed up my carefully laid plans, making me feel itchy with unease, I keep my head up. I walk into the office, gearing up with what my Spotify calls ‘crash-out situationship Tuesday morning’ blasting in my ears, and trying to pretend that I have it all together. Unfortunately, Salman scares me half to death when he greets me, and I fail to contain a yelp.
‘Glad to see I can still get your heart rate up,’ he says with awink, and I’m totally thrown again. Why is he pretending that there isn’t a giant elephant in the room?
‘Good evening last night?’
I raise a questioning eyebrow. I thought British workplace culture meant just saying ‘morning’ and then getting on with the rest of your day until it was lunchtime and you were forced to socialise. Especially when you’re exes. ‘Fine.’
‘What’d you get up to?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Well, I pretty much rotted on the sofa from the moment I got in,’ he says, supplying an answer I didn’t ask for. ‘I hadn’t realised how exhausting it would be to sit around on a computer all day. Do you think it’s more exhausting to have a desk job or a physical job?’
I just shrug in response, because how the hell else am I supposed to respond? We’re not friends.
‘I suppose they’re different types of exhaustion, right?’ he continues. ‘But surely mental fatigue is worse than physical fatigue? It has to be harder to recover from than, let’s say, sore feet.’
I don’t even say or do anything this time, as it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to make clear just how much I do not want to talk to him.
‘Pops.’ He sighs. ‘Are you really not going to say anything?’
Amid all the drama yesterday, it was easy not to call him out on his use of my old nickname, but today I can’t take it any more. ‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Why?’
Because you’re not my boyfriend any more. ‘I just don’t want you to, OK?’
He holds his hands up in surrender and before he can open his mouth to speak to me again, I head into the kitchen with my lunch box. In the fridge I see that there’s another box inthere already. It must be Salman’s. He’s brought biryani, and I’m jealous for a moment because Hira Auntie’s biryani is legendary. I don’t know how she does it but the chicken always tastes so sweet, the meat marinated with just the right amount of yogurt and sugar, while the onions are caramelised to perfection. Then the rice is cooked to a fine crisp with leeks smothered in ghee and topped with a fried egg. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.
I quickly put away my prawn mayo sandwich and shut the fridge door. When I turn around, Salman is behind me. I know this is a small office, but can he not follow me around?
‘We can share it if you want,’ he says, and I wonder how long he’s stood there, watching me salivate over his food. He steps towards me and his closeness has me trembling. If he can tell that there’s a minor earthquake rushing through me, he doesn’t let on. ‘Or we can trade –’
‘Can you not?’ I snap, unable to hold in my anger. I’ve tried to ignore it, but this facade of his is grating at me and I’m not sure how much more I can take before I implode from the rage I’ve stored up.
‘What?’
‘Being nice to me. Or at least pretending to be. Just because we’re colleagues doesn’t mean we need to act like we’re friends any more.’
