Four messages from JaxsonMalone.
Jaxson:Hey there…how’s the day away from the officegoing?
Jaxson:Have you hadlunch?
Jaxson:Or what I meant to say was, can I take you tolunch?
Jaxson:Because there is something I’d really like to discuss withyou.
The back-to-back procession of text messages makes mesnicker.
I wonder what he’d like to discuss withme.
Me:My day is going well, thank you. No, I haven’t had lunch. What do you have in mind? Shall I Uber somewhere to meet you, or were you planning to pick meup?
Text bubbles pop up. He’sreplying.
Jaxson:Uber? No silly, I’ll pick you up. In anhour?
Me:Soundsgood.
After my shower, I realize I’ve effectively done nothing work-related.
Can I count this as a mental health day? I suppose I can call it whatever. It’s my company. But this is probably the last time I’ll work fromhome.
It’s raining outside again—a norm for Paris. Entering my walk-in closet, I pull the switch dangling from the ceiling to turn on the lights. Rows and rows of clothes stare back at me beggingooh, pick me, pickme.
I pick my favorite pair of indigo jeans, ripped at the knee, and a fluffy oversized sweater, a cool light gray to match the current status of the Parissky.
And ballet flats. I can’t be bothered with heels. Not on hookyday.
My hair ends up in an Ariana-Grande-styleponytail.
Long. Full.Wispy.
If only I could sing likeher.
A light coat of poppin’ pink lip gloss goes on my lips. I don’t feel like wearing muchmakeup.
Then I kiss Truffles goodbye, grab my purse, phone, keys, coat, and headout.
Eager to know what’s on Jaxson’smind.
