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By the time I finish answering my sixth email, I’m already tired of online humanity. Not going to lie. I miss not having contact with the outside of Winter Storm. I miss not having zero bars.
I truly enjoy what I do aside from figure skating. I love creating products, not just meetings and other people’s opinions.
I just don’t enjoy the part that needs me to socialize.
The work is easy.
The people are the problem.
I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, my laptop balanced precariously in front of me, and reach for my hairbrush. My hair has been trapped in a bun since this morning. I pull the elastic free and run the brush through my hair, scanning the latest round of campaign notes on my screen.
My phone lights up with a message from my sister.
This is the updated skin-care line proposal.
I open the attachment.
Three seconds pass and then another message appears.
And before you say anything, yes, I changed the campaign language.
The phrase “your skin deserves to be worshipped” is cringe.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
It’s marketing, baby sis.
Some might say its religious propaganda, Allegra.
What about “ritual-worthy skin”?
Keep trying.
She sends me a ton of eye rolling emojis clearly letting me know she’s exasperated with my input.
Oh, well. She asked.
I return to the proposal, scanning through the campaign notes while the room stays unusually quiet. Too quiet, actually.
I glance toward the reading nook by the window, and Mika is there, doing something on her phone. She’s been texting for the better part of twenty minutes, which is weird, since Mika doesn’t text. She’s the type who sends three-word messages when absolutely necessary and considers punctuation an unnecessary luxury. To my absolute horror.
Her thumbs fly across the screen, then stop.
Her eyebrows furrow.
A moment later, she starts typing again.
Then she smiles.
Oh, that’s even worse.
Now that’s weird.
I clear my throat, and she immediately looks up.
“What?”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been texting for twenty minutes straight.”
