Page 39 of Keep Paris

I use her eggplant as my avatar for the Zoom meeting. She does, too, but with her name in the middle of it, in the much-maligned font Comic Sans. I love that my little revenge is wrapped up in hers. It’s funny.

In my mind, she has curves for days. Maybe because all my fantasy women end up looking like a grown-up version of something I had in my youth. I’ve never used a picture of me and never been live on a Zoom because she hasn’t. I’ll mirror her The Art of War tactics all fucking day. Bring it! I have plans for a deeper retaliation than changing her fonts.

But we do have to play it cool while we’re evaluated for what I’m calling “The Condensation.” We’re on a regional directors call and the meeting is endless. So much droning about shit we already know.

Bill puts his hand up like it’s fucking school. He’s the Canadian. “Sorry. So, there’s two separate campaigns?” he asks.

Shenika, the loud and hilarious woman from Atlanta, answers him. I like her and will definitely keep her when I get the job.

She says, “Bill. Jesus. You have the same info the rest of us have. One campaign from your Vancouver team for this Arco Dog Food. One from each of us. We all pitch in a Survivor-like death match and half the teams survive to pitch another day. And the rest hope to keep a job of some sort.”

I laugh a little too loudly.

And, of course, Bette jumps on me. “Did you just laugh at Shenika? How professional of you. Or were you laughing at Bill for misunderstanding the assignment? Way to go, school bully. Go scoff in a corner of the playground, the rest of us are here to work.”

Bill smiles and I want to crush her. Every once in a while, her voice transports me to fantasy but most of the time her haughty tone drives me fucking insane. There’s a timbre to it that I get lost in and forget she’s a horrible human for a second. Her voice is, and it pains me to admit, comforting. And occasionally, sexy.

Shenika says, “I was making a joke, but your point is well taken, Bette.”

“I’m sorry if I offended anyone.” I post a middle finger in the chat to Bette. I’ve never reached out like this before. I don’t know how to take it back, so it’s staring at me as I wait to see if she replies.

A mouth and a poop emoji—eat shit—is volleyed back. Glad she didn’t fucking report me. I lean back in my chair and grab a Nerf. I volley a round off to the new targets hanging near the edge of my office. They’re all her name. I snap a picture of them and send it to her.

Michelle, from San Fran, is going off on how much he hates this shit. I agree, but this is a monitored call, idiot. The New York version of us is exempt from this circus. She was automatically promoted to EVP. The San Francisco guy is also trashing her. Seems ill-advised.

Bill chimes in with something so painful, “Let’s all be on the same page. I think we should read over the memos together.”

I tune out. I’m so bored.

I type quickly.

You’re not really this fucking concerned about Bill?

She responds instantly. Interesting.

No. But Curt and Michelle Michelle are digging their graves pretty deep.

I respond, Michelle Michelle?

Listen to her, whenever she makes a point, she says it twice, emphasizing a different word the second time. Like—THIS is important. This IS important.

She just trashed a coworker with humor and observation. She’s like a little onion with many layers. I spend too much time imaging what she looks like for someone I hate. Today her hair is red in my mind.

Do you have an idea yet?

She responds, How dumb do you think I am? And is that my name in those targets? The picture is blurry like most of your overblown work.

“Jesus, this woman!” Fuck. Just when I think we’re getting along she slips in a dig. Irksome.

Dax comes in and leans in the doorframe. “What woman?”

“Her.”

“Your epic nemesis?” I nod and my boy whips down a target and rips it in half. I laugh.

“We’re chatting.”

“Whoa, really?” Dax does a little dance as if he’s excited by this.