Page 8 of A Fae in Finance
I twisted my gold ring from my index finger onto my thumb. “Did I die?”
My mother hadn’t predicted anyone’s death, exactly. But still. Sometimes she dreamed about a person dying, and then they died, not in the way she’d dreamed of, and while I wouldn’t call that aprediction, I also wouldn’t call itoptimal.
“You were in a cage,” she said, “too small to stand in, and the bars were woven branches and ivy, and you were so thin.”
“That probably made you happy,” I said, trying to sound glib. “Me being thin.” I walked into the marketplace and looked around at the food options. Bao buns, tacos, three different sandwich shops, a blood shake pop-up bar with evening hours, and a vegan grain bowl place.
My mom was silent.
“Mom?”
“I love you no matter what size you are, honey,” she said.
I stopped at the vegan grain bowl shop. “Mom, I know,” I said. “I’m sorry, that was a bad joke.”
“Please be careful, Miri. I don’t want to lose you.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. I wanted to ask follow-up questions, or reassure her, or tell her she needed to go into business as a fortune teller because she was really freaking me out.
But I was in a crowded, public place. “Sorry, I gotta go, Mom. Love you.”
“Wait!” she exclaimed. “Did you know Mrs. Phillips’s nephew Ra—”
I hung up.
When I got to the front of the line, the cashier smiled at me. We’d become buddies these past weeks, by which I mean the cashier smiled at me and I narrated a budding friendship on top of it.
He slid my rice and lentil bowl across the plywood counter and I tapped my credit card. “Thanks,” I said, staring down at the unappealing brown patties covered in thick, tasteless mango chutney. The vegan grain bowl shop rarely had a line, for reasons beyond mortal comprehension.
I started for the door, clutching my sad lunch in one hand and my phone in the other. My music had started as soon as I hung up, and an indie lesbian steal-your-girl anthem drowned out the chatter in the hall. A gaggle of men in suits parted around me. One of them bumped my right hand, almost upending my bowl.
The frustration boiled within me as I beelined for the door. My fingers drummed on the back of my phone case. My steps were longer, faster, staccato on the polished concrete.
I just needed to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Deep breaths over and over until I made it into our building’s lobby and then to our elevator bank.
Just as I walked into an opening elevator, someone else walked in next to me. I didn’t see him, but I felt his arm brush my shoulder as he passed me, hurrying to lean against the back wall, the mirror reflecting the knot of black curls at the base of his neck.
“Sahir,” I said, and inclined my head. I paused my music but left my headphones in.
“Miriam,” he replied, with a slow blink back at me.
“Hold the elevator!” someone called out. I stepped forward and stuck my arm out, entering a battle of dominance with the closing door. The door submitted, reopening.
The man who’d shouted came into view, eyes flicking from me to Sahir. His nose wrinkled. “It’s okay, I’ll wait,” he said.
I withdrew my arm, following his gaze. His gaze led to Sahir, whose pointed ears and sharp features marked him Fae. Sahir’s eyebrows contracted as he realized what had happened.
The elevator doors slid shut. I leaned against the wall next to Sahir, staring at the curve of his crooked nose. His visage never ceased to fascinate me, though I knew it left many in the office unnerved.
He’d pursed his lips; his eyes were fixed on the stainless steel doors.
“How are you?” I asked, suddenly desperate to distract him.
“Weary as a winter lamb,” he said, without looking at me.
“That sounds, um, bad,” I said.
“We live to feel,” he replied, “and cannot feel joy without pain.”
