Zk | Malina

It was with no small amount of irony that Malina lay down all of her finery and went to work in a coffee shop. The Book and the Bean was a short hop, after all, from her home, close enough that, after the walk, she was hardly fluffed at all. Just a badger, a bit portly, a bit tall, who gave up on a job in personal finance, one fall, to, as she’d told Cyril, “head for greener pastures.” Internally, she couldn’t shake the stress of last year’s troubles with the boss. Stupid git. She’d promised Cyril that she’d be a good fit and make things work out financially. “Our house is paid off, we’re substantially self sufficient. Far more so than most!” she’d said over that evening’s roast. “And I’m perfectly willing to admit I’ll never make a killing working in a coffee shop. And if it doesn’t work out, I’m just as willing to admit it wasn’t a good idea, and head back to the books.” Cyril had given her the weariest of looks and shaken his head, and that act, or non-act, which showed his opinion of the fact that moving from a comfortable CPA position to a barista down the road, that that transition was, perhaps, one big bad idea. “It could work, but Malina, please keep an eye on reality.”

When one’s coworker up and goes missing, taking her life and leaving without even kissing her husband goodbye, it takes every good lie you’ve told in the office and either makes you ask why you told it, or shatters the carefully constructed mask it implies. Your boss, for instance, might come after you with some persistence, aiming for a kiss here, a touch there, Even as he wonders aloud, “Where has she gone? And why?” It makes no sense. You rebuff every approach and set up a little fence around your desk, one made of papers and inboxes, and work with your back to a wall to keep that fox’s advances at bay. It could be that you’re just, you know, imagining things. That your boss is just stooping this low not because he’s upset, but because you are. Even then, it doesn’t really matter just how far he goes. Sigh. He’s still an asshole. One day, you reject and rebuff a pass while explaining what a shitty thing that is to do, and finally tell the truth about how little you care just who he thinks he is. He backs off, anger cool and plain, but he does back off. He has much to lose, little to gain, should you take it up with HR or, heaven forbid, corporate, and touches, you know, notoriously difficult to misinterpret. How valid could you possibly be? How necessary? Your numbers are good, your speed legendary, but it’s hard not to feel like mere decoration: something pretty. Or worse, some awful temptation. Sure, you could just be imagining it, now that she’s gone off somewhere, winging it. You belong here, though, you’re at home. But it’s hard enough to shake impostor syndrome, so, soon enough, you leave, too.