Page 1 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

ONE

Dear Debra, I am going to kill you.

I aggressively backspace before a nosy colleague can read the brash email draft over my shoulder. Narrowly escaping the cubicle life—and the privacy that comes with it—means the whole office is privy to everything I do between the working hours of eight and four, when my ass is glued to my seat behind my receptionist desk by the front door. Of course, their asses should also be glued to their seats, but I’m convinced nobody does time theft quite like the employees at Curated Care Life Insurance.

I try again for something less likely to get me reported to HR.

Dear Debra,

I hope this email finds you well! I’m circling back to see if the end-of-week report is ready? I’d love to drop it on Luke’s desk by four.

Thank you, and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help!

Best,

Brie

I debate taking out the exclamation marks, but at this point, fuck it. If Debra didn’t want an over-eager receptionist in her inbox, she should have sent the reports by noon, like she’s supposed to.

A huff escapes as I click send and push away from my desk. In the five months since starting at Curated Care, I’ve gone from teary-eyed gratitude at finally getting hired somewhere to needing to give myself morning pep talks in the bathroom mirror every day while getting ready.

Moisturizer: It’s a new day. Make it a good one!

Eyeliner: You’re the hottest receptionist (see also: only receptionist) in the place. Work it.

Mascara: How lucky you are to get a biweekly paycheck! Thriving!

With twenty minutes to kill before end of day, I wander to the water jug, which is adjacent to Debra’s office. Since we share the same floor, I can just nag her in person, which worked fine until recently. I even kind of enjoyed it. Debra used to give off gracious granny vibes, like she loved nothing more than letting me sit in her office while she stuffed me full of gingersnaps from the cookie jar she keeps on the corner of her desk. But I’m starting to suspect that was just a make-the-new-girl-feel-welcome ruse. I’m now well acquainted with the procrastinating menace beneath her sweet-as-pie facade.

I’m pretty sure she’s asleep at her desk, if her tucked-in chin is any indication. I clear my throat, then do it again when she gives no response. Jesus, is she dead? I know she’s old, nearly at retirement, but not that old.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, giving the empty water jug a shake. A few drops drip sadly into my waiting cup, but nothing more.

“Nearly that time,” Ted from Sales says, passing me from the hall that connects the office with the stairwell leading to the back door. He smells faintly of something too sweet to be natural, a sure sign he was on a vape break. “Also, don’t forget to fax this week’s sales numbers to Corporate. I think I saw Luke leave a note about it on your desk earlier.”

First off, Ted, mind your fucking business. Second—

“Just waiting for Debs to send me the report,” I say through clenched teeth. The Post-it note I found stuck on my clunky keyboard upon returning from lunch read in neat print:

B,

Please fax the weekly report to Corporate and leave a copy on my desk.

Thanks in advance,

L

As if my boss thinking I can’t competently do my job without nudging isn’t bad enough, I also have the joy of bracing myself for my weekly brawl with our prehistoric fax machine. Meanwhile, the fact that I could send the report as a PDF attached via email hangs over my head like a juicy steak. If only Curated Care didn’t still abide by operations put in place in the ’80s.

Ted takes the initiative to strike up a conversation and props an elbow on the empty water jug. “Any fun plans this weekend?”

Ted is the type of man who shows just above the normal colleague level of interest in my life, but his salt-and-pepper hair and receding hairline make it difficult to tell if his weekly asks are in the office dad way or the office dad-dy way. I desperately hope it’s the former, for both our sakes.

“Nothing much,” I say, the same answer I’ve given every Friday since starting here. “Takeout, trashy TV, tequila, oh my!”

I should return the question, but I never do, because that breaks one of my most sacred rules: don’t get personal with others, and they won’t get personal with you.

He smiles in a clueless way that suggests he doesn’t get my reference. “Cool, sounds like a great time. I miss the days when tequila didn’t end with my head in the toilet.”