Page 16 of Pierced

I nod a bit. We stand there saying nothing for what is probably less time than it feels like, but more time than two people who have known each other as long as we have should.

Finally, she says, “Your food is going to get cold.”

“It’s Vichyssoise.”

“Then it’s going to come to room temperature.”

I lower my voice. “What do I have to do to get you to stop being pissed at me?”

“I dunno. What would it take for you to stop being pissed at someone who publicly humiliated you while at the same time questioning your loyalty, integrity, and character?”

I try to think of an answer that isn’t total bullshit. “Um… a raise and a promotion?”

She starts to walk past. I take her arm. She looks at my hand. “Anastasia, you need to let go of me. Right. Now.”

I shake my head, release my grip, and say, “This is fucking ridiculous. You’re full of shit.”

“I’m full of shit?”

“You. Yes. You are. If you were really so upset, you wouldn’t still be working for me.”

“No? You don’t think that it makes infinitely more sense for me to take your money, a cushy job, the liberty to do whatever I want, whenever I want, secure in the knowledge that you can’t do a goddamn thing to me? Because if you suddenly got it in your head to fire me, I’d rain down an unlawful termination suit on you that would fuck. Your. World?”

She says that last three words in a really breathy, sexy way while stepping in very close. I have a sudden urge to bite my nails, but just tug at my vest instead. Dignified.

I say the only thing I can think to say. “Why are you talking to an event planner about a Halloween party?” I do not know why it is what manifests in my brain, but there it is.

“Don’t worry about it. You want me to do something special? Help create a special spread for the magazine? I’m doing something special. I’m helping create a special spread for the magazine.” She gets even closer now. Her lips right by my ear. Her warm breath on my neck. In all the time I’ve known her, I don’t think she’s ever been this close to me. It is both weird and pretty… um… great. “Why?” she whispers. “Don’t you trust me?”

I’m not a stammerer. I don’t stammer. Or at least I didn’t before about half a second ago. I start to work out my reply when a woman walks in and comes over to where we stand.

“Myrtle?” she says.

“Oh, hi, Pearl.”

Pearl?

“Sorry I’m late,” the person apparently named Pearl says.

“No problem,” says Myrtle. “I just wanted to make sure we go over everything in detail. Make sure it’s all fine by community standards.”

“Well, as I said, it is the TDH. What’s standard elsewhere doesn’t really apply here, but happy to go over everything. I love this place. Oh, hi, Gabrielle!” she says to Colette, who happens to be passing by.

“What are you going over in detail?” I ask. “Who’s this?”

“Hi,” Pearl says, extending her hand. “I’m Pearl.”

“Pearl. I’m—” I stick out my hand in return, but Myrtle interrupts our shake.

“Are you hungry, Pearl? I’m starving.”

And at that, she whisks Pearl away toward a booth in the back.

As I watch them walk away, I think about what Andrew said to me. That I need to make a profound apology. That I need to, somehow, prostrate myself.

I’ve never done that in my life. I’ve been taught, trained, and conditioned not to. Which is three ways of saying the same thing, but the point is that it’s been drilled into me to never bow. I don’t know if I even know how to.

I wish I did. Because it’s Myrtle. And for Myrtle, I’d—