My darling, I know exactly what you’re about to say about this one. You’re wrong. I’m telling it anyway. By the spring we’re friends in a way that has stopped needing a qualifier. Not work friends, not almost-friends – friends, full stop, the kind who text about things that have nothing to do with the…
My darling, I’ve been thinking about the coffee. Yes, yours. No, this isn’t an apology. You start bringing me coffee in October, which nobody asks you to do, and which you get wrong nearly every time, and I’ve come to suspect the wrongness is the actual point. The first time it’s too much sugar. I…
My darling, I’ve been at the company ten years. Long enough to stop noticing the hum of the building, the smell of the third-floor carpet, the break room clock that’s said 4:47 for as long as anyone remembers and that nobody bothers to fix, because fixing it would require someone to care. I’m not proud…
My darling, you were right. Don’t enjoy that too much. I can already see your face – that specific tilt you do, chin down, eyebrows up, like you’re waiting for me to say it again so you can savor it twice. Fine. You were right. The Mercer account should have gone to Marcus in March,…