Page 9 of Love Letters from a Libra
She wore rings like armor, especially that moonstone. Her laugh was lower than expected, throatier like she’d been a smoker, but her teeth said otherwise. The first thing I noticed was how she didn’t try to impress me, and the second was how we both welcomed silence but made room for each other anyway.
Yet, as I replayed our conversation, there was still space between those glances. There was something old-fashioned about a woman who didn’t try to take over a room but held it anyway. It was like the difference between a drought and a storm. Both would change the landscape, but only one was interesting to watch.
Reminding myself I was supposed to be working, I tapped my keyboard to run a diagnostic for a second time. My client’s website was targeted by a phishing attempt that was flagged by the intrusion protocol, but it was a sloppy job, and I was able to resolve it easily. I typed up a response to my client while my mind searched for motives and patterns or for the thing that didn’t fit.
My coffee had gone cold. I dumped and rinsed the cup and started a new brew. I smiled, remembering how Zanaa had said,“You pay attention to details.”She was telling me to pay attention to what I was missing. I could respect getting read by her.
I lined up two mugs on the counter, even though it was just me here. Sometimes I liked to pretend I was hosting. It was a trick I picked up from Aunt Nubi, who raised me after my mom died. She’d say, “Keep an extra plate on the table for whoever might walk through your door.” I always thought it was about being hospitable, but now I realize it was about being ready for surprises.
I grabbed my mug, filled it, and returned to my desk. The dashboards were green. The client was protected, and I had half an hour before my first video call of the day. I thought about Zanaa and jotted down what came to mind.
Some people enter quietly and change everything. Sometimes it’s presence. Sometimes it’s a hack.
I almost chuckled at myself. Getting poetic; I must be slipping. I leaned back and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to go blank, but in the quiet, shit got louder.
When it was time for my video call, I checked my image in the preview window; the shirt was crisp but not buttoned all the way, and the tattoos were mostly hidden. I straightened my shoulders and hit ‘Join.’”
“Jules, it’s good to see you. How was your weekend?” the partner asked.
“Uneventful, that’s how I like them.”
“I hear you. I wish I could say the same,” the partner commented.
We moved through the agenda like pros, highlighting the results of last week’s penetration tests.
“I patched up your aging firewall and will implement a new phishing simulation.”
Half the room nodded, while the others typed or took notes. All the while, my brain was doing a split screen: one on incident logs and flowcharts, the other replaying Zanaa’s face and how she toyed with that moonstone ring like it held secrets.
“Your reporting is next level. Are you ever not working, Jules?” the compliance officer questioned.
I leaned back and smiled. “Not if I can help it.”
But it was a lie. Lately, my work hours leaked into the rest of my life, or maybe it was the other way around. I used to compartmentalize, draw boundaries, and keep people out.
The partner concluded, “We appreciate you for making this digestible for us. So much of this is a black box.”
I clapped my hands together. “You know I got you.”
We finished the call early, which was a win for me. I logged the meeting notes and found myself opening up Zanaa’s blog. There was a new post, ‘Why Your Life is Breaking This Week.’ I skimmed it, laughing at a line about corporate emails feelinglike an attack from other dimensions. I scrolled through the comments, mostly the regulars. The ones who treated her like an oracle and used too many emojis. Or the trolls who thought astrology was evil. She never took the bait though. That was what I liked about her, how she responded with grace and sometimes not at all.
My phone lit up with a notification. My little sister Amir was video calling from college. I let it ring a few times so she would know I was busy. Then, I tapped the screen, and she wore a hoodie with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail. She sipped ramen with chopsticks.
“Bro, why you look like you got your ass kicked by a crush?”
I smirked.
Amir raised her eyebrows. “What? It’s real. Wow, you’re soft.”
“Wow, Aunt Nubi can’t keep quiet to save her life. Don’t start.” I laughed.
“Too late. Who is she?”
I shook my head, but she was grinning. Amir was the only person in the world who could see straight through me. Call me soft, and it would not be weird. I didn’t answer my sister’s question. Instead, I glanced back at the blog.
“Bro, you can look at me.”
Amir’s face filled up my phone. She had our mother’s nose and our father’s refusal to take bullshit, especially from her big brother.
