Page 55 of By A Thread
“It’s the coat,” I joked, brushing a clump of dog hair off the lovely wool.
“You’re the only one brave enough to yell at him, you know.”
“I’m not brave,” I told him. “He just can’t fire me, and this is all temporary. Once everything is fixed, I don’t plan on staying.”
His eyes widened behind those owlish glasses. “This is a dream come true for a lot of girls out there.”
“It’s not my dream.”
“Is that why handsome ogres like Dominic don’t scare you?”
“Or sharp-toothed Medusas like Malina.”
Linus shuddered. “She’s one of theworsthuman beings I’ve ever met. And I work in fashion.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes.
“Thanks for my phone and laptop, by the way,” I said.
He squinted at me behind his glasses.
“Didn’t you arrange it with IT? I mean, since I was assigned to you this week, I assumed these came from you.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing I could do,” he mused. “I wonder if I could requisition a new Dior scarf?”
“If they’re not from you, and Zara had nothing to do with it, where did they come from?”
“Maybe Dalessandra is playing Santa Claus,” he guessed.
“Does she do that? With things other than jobs, I mean.”
“Dalessandra does a lot of things that the rest of us don’t know about.”
* * *
It was almost six,and the forty-third floor was starting to clear out. A few panicked support staff sweated over emergency magazine tasks in cubicles and conference rooms. Some of the higher-ups were clustering near the elevator in gowns and black ties. Just another Monday night.
I changed into my standard dance uniform, high-waisted tights and a cropped tank, and plopped down at my desk to check my emails while listening to tonight’s playlist before I left for class.
The pay from the studio wasn’t great. But I loved dance enough that I allowed myself two classes a week instead of taking better paying shifts. I loved moving and sweating and feeling the music in my bones. It felt like a celebration of being alive.
The kinds of classes I taught were less about technique and more about moving in ways that made you feel strong and sexy.
Taylor Swift crooned in my ears as I shoulder shimmied and fired off an email.
My old, crappy phone vibrated in staccato on the desk. It was a text from my neighbor.
Mr. Mohammad: I visited your father. We ate Jell-O and watched Judge Judy.
He’d included a GIF of two women Jell-O wrestling. I had some regrets about installing the GIF keyboard on his phone.
I thanked him and gave him my new work phone number with explicit instructions that it was for emergencies only.
He responded with a GIF of cartoon thumbs.
“Working late?” Even muffled by Taylor Swift, I recognized the voice.
Dominic stood just outside my cubicle. Hands in his pockets. His coat was covered in muddy paw prints of varying sizes. I liked the imperfection. It made him look less formidable. More human.
