Page 45 of Tell Me What you Think

Marina tilts her head to look at her. Though she doesn't show it, she's nervous too. The intrusive thoughts keep pressing in and it's getting harder to be around Olga without feeling like some part of her body is running hotter than it should.

"Come on, finish that and let's go find that document," she says, draining her coffee.

Olga looks at her and smiles, and Marina sighs, unable to stop her own lips from curving.

"Sorry, I'm giving orders like we're at work."

"It's fine. Honestly, I should've been doing this every evening after work instead of leaving it for the weekend." The two women leave the kitchen and walk down the hall toward the back room.

Marina can't help glancing to either side, catching glimpses of the bathroom and Olga's bedroom. She's intensely curious about how she lives — something that hasn't happened to her with anyone in a very long time. In fact, she can't remember it ever happening, not even when she met her ex-husband.

"It's in here. The room of horrors."

The door is open. Olga made a point of cracking the window first thing to let it air out, and she lit an aromatic candle on one of the shelves that has left the room smelling of vanilla. Marina steps inside. It's a large room with two storage shelves packed with boxes, a sewing machine on a round table by the window, and two wingback armchairs pushed against the wall.

"I don't like them," Olga says when she notices her boss looking at them, "but they were my grandparents' and I've never been able to get rid of them."

"You could reupholster them in a fabric you actually like — they look comfortable," the vice president suggests, moving closer. "May I?"

"Sure, though they might be a little dusty."

Marina doesn't mind. She turns one of the armchairs slightly and sits down, feeling the cushion swallow her up.

"It's really comfortable," she murmurs, more to herself than for Olga to hear.

Olga goes quiet again. The day has dawned brilliantly clear and sunlight pours through the window, landing directly on her boss's dark blond hair, its long, wavy layers falling on both sides of her shoulders while Marina, lost in thought, runs those perfectly manicured hands over the armrests as if the feel of the fabric is carrying her somewhere pleasant. She's so beautiful it borders on ridiculous, and Olga should be used to it by now, but she can't manage it — every day she finds something new in her that pulls her in a little deeper.

"Alright." Marina stands. "Whenever you're ready, we can start."

"We could move the sewing machine off the table and sit in the armchairs if you want. We'll be more comfortable, and this is going to take a while," Olga proposes, glancing at the shelf with a frustrated sigh.

"Sure."

"You don't have to stay the whole time. When you get tired, feel free to go — I get that it's going to be hours, and you—"

"I've audited companies worse than this. Relax." The vice president picks up the sewing machine and sets it on the floor in a corner, and Olga seems to snap into motion, moving quickly to turn the armchairs toward the table so they can work more comfortably.

For the first hour, everything goes smoothly. Both of them are settled in the armchairs with a box each, going through papers one by one, but when Marina picks up the next one, dozens of photographs start turning up mixed in with documents, funeral cards, and handwritten notes.

Olga inhales sharply, dying of embarrassment at the thought of her boss seeing pictures of her as a little girl.

"Would you rather go through this one yourself?" Marina asks.

"It's fine — I think it's going to be like this in a lot of them." Olga holds up a stack of photos that came out of her own box, but Marina is no longer listening. Her gaze has fixed on one image.

"You still have the same open look you had as a kid," she says in a low tone that Olga doesn't quite know how to read, because Marina seems genuinely fascinated by the discovery.

The next hour passes the same way. The boxes are mixed with all kinds of things — more photographs, Olga's old report cards, her library card, her father's hunting license, and a thousand things she didn't know her mother had kept. Marina goes through everything carefully, trying not to be intrusive. If she comes across a pile of photos, she sets it aside and only looks through the papers, though when a loose one turns up, she can't help glancing at it, and she's already seen a couple of Olga at around twenty that have made her pulse pick up for no reason she can name.

After three hours, Olga won't stop sighing with anxiety. The pile of reviewed boxes stacking up against the wall — kept separate from the ones they haven't touched — keeps growing, and the damn document is nowhere to be found.

She goes through a bundle of receipts and sets it on the table, but a moment later she has to pick it up again because she's not sure she looked carefully enough.

"God," she says, exasperated, jumping to her feet. "Do you want coffee? Maybe we need to take a break before we both go cross-eyed."

Marina looks at the table. This would be the third time Olga has brought coffee.

"I think you've had enough, Olga. You need to calm down, not wind yourself up more."