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It did not escape my notice that this was less of an invitation and more of a command, a fact that didn’t surprise me, either. As much as I would have liked spending the rest of the afternoon thinking of the perfect withering response, the dev team had their own meeting in less than five minutes, and I needed a bathroom break. So I fired off a quick response and headed toward the bathroom, speed-walking down the hallways and into the first empty stall.
Me: Fine but I’m bringing a date.
I paused briefly while washing my hands, even though I didn’t necessarily have the extra time to scrutinize my appearance. The dress code at OmegaVs was very casual, unless there was a meeting with investors or potential investors, or some other event that required us to look less like computer nerds and more like savvy business professionals. I rarely had to attend such events, so my normal work attire consisted of nicer shirts and nicer jeans than I would wear on weekends or after work. Today, I was wearing a pair of dark-washed skinny jeans and a long grey cardigan over a black tank top that read ‘Get with the Program’ above a line of binary code.
Did my ensemble belong on the cover of Vogue? No. Was it embarrassing, though? I was less sure of the answer to that question. I stood up straighter, locking eyes with my reflection in the mirror. Spine stiff, eyes firm. There was no way I was going to let Sissy make me feel self-conscious. I liked who I was and how I dressed. I loved what I did, and I loved a good pun. If I embarrassed Sissy, that washerproblem, not mine. I vowed that I would never again let her voice be the loudest one in my head, making me doubt myself.
With a new sense of resolve, I made my way back to the conference room and took a seat next to Max. She was one of the project managers for our team, so she attended all the dev meetings to make sure she was up to speed on where everyone was and where they needed to be. Max might have been a five-foot-six-inch ball of chaos, but no one was more organized or detailed. She was kind of a ninja like that.
“Uh, why do you look like you channeled your inner Wonder Woman and are about to throw down with some mutant Nazis?” Maxine asked, looking me up and down as I dropped into my chair.
“Sissy,” I said.
Maxine’s brow cleared, Sissy’s name was explanation enough.
“Max, do you have any plans next Saturday night? I’m phrasing it like a question but it’s not. If you have plans, I need you to cancel them. It’s an emergency. Sort of. Like a friend emergency, not a medical emergency.”
Maxine looked at me like she was genuinely concerned about the state of my mental health, which was fair.
“I don’t think I have any plans. What’s going on? Why do you look fierce but flustered? I feel like I’m missing something, which seems impossible since you were fine the last time I saw you, which was literally less than five minutes ago.”
“I’m about to grant your wish.”
“I’m listening...”
“Sissy has demanded my presence at a gala for a charitable foundation managed by Macon’s law firm. I need you to be my date. It’s at the Mansion on Forsyth Park. Black tie.”
“Say less. I’m in.” Maxine’s eyes lit up with glee. I knew that look, and it was trouble — but trouble was what I needed. “We’re totally going shopping for this.”
“She sent me a list of Sissy-approved stores, so I don’t embarrass her with — God forbid — dress pants.”
Maxine let out an evil-adjacent laugh, rubbing her hands together. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun.”
Before I could ask her to clarify what she meant by ‘fun,’ our team leader walked in and handed the phone box to the person at the table closest to where he stood, signaling that the meeting was about to start. The last thing I saw as I dropped my cellphone into the box among the other brightly colored cases was a text from Sissy.
Sissy: Cute. Aren’t you a little old to have an imaginary friend? I’ll let Macon know that you’ll be bringing a “date.”
And just like that, I was one hundred percent onboard with whatever trouble Maxine was planning. This gala was one project I would be more than happy to let Max manage
16
By the time I made it back to my apartment that evening, the sun had set, and the patios were filled with people enjoying a beautiful, early summer evening. It wouldn’t be long at all before the summer heat settled in and made it too hot and humid for outdoor dining even in the evenings. I opened the door to an enthusiastic chorus of squeals and squeaks.
“Hello, piglets, I’m home.” I slid my shoes off and threw my keys on the breakfast bar. “Pajamas, then dinner.”
At the clatter of my keys hitting the granite, the squeals escalated to an almost deafening pitch. They might have small brains, but they knew that sound was usually followed by food.
“Okay, okay!” I changed direction mid-stride and headed to the kitchen instead of the bedroom. I didn’t want one of my neighbors to call the landlord with a noise complaint. Tenants were allowed to have guinea pigs, but it wasn’t clear whether there was a limit on quantity. “Geesh, you all are a bunch of pigs. Get it?”
I chose to believe that the increased volume was their approval of my pun and not a response to the fridge door being opened. Pulling out some strawberries and kale, I rinsed, chopped, and sorted, then deposited everything into a large mixing bowl. Those creatures ate better than I did ninety percent of the time. I took the bowl to their cages and proceeded to place their dinner in the little troughs stationed throughout their enclosure.
Once they were happily — and quietly — eating their meals, I made my way to the bedroom to change out of my work clothes. I pulled on the large nightshirt I’d found at a craft fair in the park. It was grey with bold black lettering across the chest that read “the snuggle is real.” I threw my dirty clothes in the hamper and shuffled back to the kitchen to dig through the fridge for my dinner.
Inside the fridge, the options for humans were bleak. I really needed to go to the store. I had cleaned out most things before I’d headed home and left a wasteland. Max had gotten produce for the piglets while she was pet sitting, but the strawberries and kale were the only things left from her haul. There wasn’t much other than a half-empty bottle of wine and an unopened package of Muenster cheese available for human consumption. I shrugged, then grabbed both and placed them on the counter.
“Looks like we’re doing a charcuterie board,sanseverything but cheese,” I announced to the pigs who were still too absorbed in their own meals to care if I starved to death. “Y’all are lucky that kale tastes like moldy dirt or —”
A knock at my door stopped me mid-sentence. I looked down at my nightshirt, then decided that whoever was knocking could deal with me in all my after-work, bra-free glory. It was probably my neighbor from down the hall, Mrs. Hill, asking if I had seen her cat. That fat tabby somehow managed to escape from her apartment at least three times a week.
