Page 7 of Fruit
CHAPTER TWO
“Oh, my God,” I groan.
Again?Again?This is the third time this client has sent me the image she wants on her website in a Word document, despite the fact I’ve explained to her what a JPEG is about a million times.
I send her another email explaining the difference between image qualities before rolling my chair away from my cubicle desk and heading to the coffee room for a well-deserved hit of caffeine. I’m going to need it if I’m to survive the rest of the day.
“You don’t look happy,” Iván says in greeting as I step into the break room.
I met Iván whilst studying at Fox Lake University. He had been doing a condensed course, funded by the company we’re both now working for. He’s a few years older than I am and light years ahead in his career, having landed a job after freelancing for a few years after high school.
“No me hables,” I grumble at him in Spanish. He laughs, his blond hair flopping as he shakes his head. He’s a first-generation Argentinian American, his parents having immigrated to America before he was born. My parents also moved here from Puerto Rico, before I was born, and our Hispanic roots bonded us together when we met in college.
“Rough morning?”
“Knowing what a JPEG is should be a prerequisite for starting a business, I swear. I can’t wait until I have to explain to this client what a vector is…”
“Good luck with that.” Iván laughs.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “It’s fine, though,” I add, not wanting to sound ungrateful.
Iván had helped me get this job right out of college. It’s what I’d studied for, along with a minor in classical arts, but the drudgery of the work has been taking its toll. I hadn’t been naïve enough to think an entry-level job would be anything else, but I’d thought I’d at least enjoy some aspects of the work. Instead, I’m caught in a loop of long hours, frustrating clients, and pressing bills arriving unceasingly every month without any accompanying sense of accomplishment.
But that’s life, right?
Right?
“Hang in there. It gets better,” Iván promises.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound convinced. “How’s Isadoro?” I ask, changing the subject.
Iván and Isadoro had been childhood friends and in love since forever, by the sounds of it. They’d only gotten together after Isadoro had returned from the military eight years after deploying when they were both eighteen. The relationship was hard-earned, but they both still carried scars from Isadoro’s time away.
“Good. We’re…we’ve actually started looking for a house together. We’ve been talking about it forever, so…”
“Iván! Yay, that sounds great,” I say, grinning. He returns the smile.
“Yeah. It’s a little scary, but…yeah.”
I give him a squeeze as the coffee maker gurgles to a finish.
“You’ll invite me over when you choose one, right?” I ask.
“Duh.”
I return to my desk with a smile on my face. My life feels like it’s going nowhere sometimes, but I can’t begrudge my friends their upwards movement, even if it tightens a ball of insecurity at the pit of my stomach.
I shake it off and get back to work.
The day fizzles away without ceremony. By the time I leave work at seven, my eyes are sore from looking at the computer screen. My brain feels like mush inside my head. I stick some earphones in as I start walking home. The sun is still beating down, and the city is all hot tarmac and the rich steam of food carts parked on the corners.
“I said I hate my job, but I need this money,” I mutter along with the song playing in my head.
I’m sweaty and gross by the time I reach my studio apartment. At least I live alone. I don’t think I could face another human being right now.
I leave my bag and MP3 by the door before scrambling out of my bra without taking my shirt off.
“The hounds have been released!” I say to the empty apartment as I fling the bra away from me and collapse onto the couch. I let out an exaggerated groan, pulling out a zipped bag of snacks from underneath the couch. There’s a pile of bills on the coffee table in front of me. I close my eyes.
