Page 4 of This is a Kissing Book

“If you could have any job, what would it be?” Wendy asks.

Carmen’s nostrils flare. “I’d be the axeman. I’ve always wanted to tell Hershel in the mail room, ‘You’re fired!’”

“Because he asked if you’re single?”

“I’m sixty!”

“And a foxy lady.” Wendy shimmies her shoulders.

It’s true. Carmen is gorgeous and has the classic good looks of a star of the silver screen. As a rule, I don’t follow modern celebrity stuff. Mom raised me with the belief that if it didn’t happen while Elvis and Marilyn Monroe were alive, it’s not relevant. She says those were the days of true glamor. The kind I aspire to, never mind that most days I feel like a raccoon—a nighttime bandit with dark crescents under my eyes from taking on too much work. People think I’m a pushover, but really, I just want to learn every aspect of this business and prove myself. (And maybe, deep down, if my fake diploma is discovered, I’ll be granted clemency since I’ve made myself indispensable.)

Whereas Carmen is classic elegance and Wendy is modern trends, I’m somewhere in the middle, usually adding a little splash of flair to my humdrum work attire—sparkly heart earrings today.

“What about you, Wendy?” I ask.

“I’d be a stay-at-home mom.”

“Solid dream job,” I say without irony.

My mother was a Las Vegas showgirl when—surprise!—I came along. She’d have preferred not to work two jobs so she could spend more time with me.

“Your turn, Juliana,” Carmen says.

“My dream job at the moment is research archivist. I love the stories old documents, manuscripts, photographs, and artwork tell.” I gave up on that a few weeks ago when HR didn’t so much as acknowledge my submission.

“You’re such a romantic.” Wendy smiles.

We continue to play the “Disract each other from the pending meeting” game.

“Any big weekend plans?” Carmen waggles her eyebrows at me since I’m the only single one of our bunch.

“Going out with Oly tonight.” My best friend insists on being my flirting sherpa, guiding me through the wilds of the dating world.

“I thought she was recently married,” Wendy says.

I nod. “Nate is out of town this weekend.”

Looking forward to getting dressed up and gabbing like old times with my bestie over a platter of appetizers, then singing karaoke is the only thing that’s keeping my mind from doom-obsessing about the upcoming meeting.

After we close out our tasks for the day, we march to the assembly room downstairs. A heavy sense of foreboding accompanies my every step. I wonder if this is a before moment and whatever comes after will change the trajectory of my life forever.

Wendy looks like she might cry when she doesn’t see the sideboard populated with pastry boxes from Flour Hour. Carmen, stone-faced, is prepared for war.

In short order, the meeting is as corporate as they come, but swift.

There aren’t any layoffs. Phew.

Meridian did not buy the Louvre. Wendy is disappointed.

Nor did they accuse anyone of stealing those little instant coffee pods—Carmen suspects Hershel and has him locked in her crosshairs.

What happened is that Andresen announced the appointment of new managers to oversee the expanding digital archive project, to coordinate between our physical and virtual collections and to oversee cross-departmental integration.

I tune out the corporate jargon. New managers, same grind. At least I still have a job.

The relief has me sailing buoyantly home rather than sulking on the bus, followed by the train, while sidestepping what looks like—but does not smell like—mustard on the platform.

No sooner am I through the door of my Logan Square studio than my phone rings.