揑 was having a bad day,?she says absently.
揥hy??I grip my empty glass, hating that I suddenly care.
揘one of your business.?
I say nothing, knowing I抦 teetering on the edge of another blowout.
揃urns? I just told you棓
揥hat抯 the first rule of dealing with clients in copywriting??I blurt out.
揊irst rule? I don抰 know. I was a creative writing major. I only turned to copy and marketing because poetry doesn抰 pay the rent. I never went to business school.?
揌ow have you made it this far without knowing that??I scratch my face, far too warm. Blame it on the booze.
揑抦 good at writing. I don抰 do peopling unless I have to.?
I pause, thinking over my words, because I mean this and I抦 not sure how she抣l take it.
揟o move up in this industry梩o reach your full potential梱ou may have to get over that,?I say carefully.
揑 know but...I抦 okay with making a steady income and focusing on my poetry. I抦 not a ladder climber. I probably shouldn抰 have bothered telling you that.?
揑t抯 fine. I just hope you reconsider somewhere along the way,?I say. 揧ou know you抮e talented, Poe. The first rule of talking to a copy client is this梱ou have to go three whys deep. Your first reason for refusing to accept five hundred for a lump of flour, sugar, and cinnamon is that you were having a bad day. That could be anything from 慖 tripped leaving the house?to 慖 just got hit by a truck.?So, if you want to shut me up, give me one more why.?
揑t should have been棓 She pauses. 揥ould have been my wedding anniversary.?
揑 see.?
Dammit, I抦 a clod. A total buffalo-brain.
She was left at the fucking altar. I should抳e known. Also, I have an inexplicable urge to punch the guy who left her stranded and humiliated.
揗r. Burns??
揥e don抰 need to go three whys deep,?I say sharply. 揑 get it now.?
She抯 quiet for a heady moment.
揥hy did you really want that cinnamon roll so badly??
Face, meet floor. I made my own bed, didn抰 I? And I just taught her how to not let up.
揑 was starving,?I lie.
揂re you on a cinnamon-sugar diet? You had options. There was a case full of bear claws,?she reminds me.
I glower at the screen.
揥ould you believe I抦 allergic to almonds??
揘ot at all.?
Didn抰 think so.
揊ine. You got me. It was for my mother,?I say with a twist of my guts. It抯 not technically a lie. If there were two rolls, I definitely would have saved one for Ma.
I just wouldn抰 have pitched a fucking fit over it.
揧our mom only eats Sweeter Grind??she asks incredulously.
She抯 getting warmer. Closer to the truth.
揝he has fond memories of head-sized cinnamon rolls growing up in old Seattle. Sweeter Grind抯 are the closest, even if they抮e a newer shop.?Again, not a total lie since it抯 truly why Ma fell in love with them. Still a lie by omission.
揥hy??
Fuck, I have no idea how to spin this further.
揥e used to share them when I was a kid,?I tell her.
揙h, and your mom was jonesing for memories to the tune of five hundred bucks??
揝he was having a bad day,?I say, amazed I don抰 trip over my own words.
揃ad day? Really??Nevermore prompts.
Because it was her wedding anniversary. I don抰 know. Leave me the hell alone.
揝he doesn抰 always enjoy her retirement, I抦 afraid,?I say. 揈specially since my father passed away a few years ago.?
There. Hard truth. Now she can buzz off and go torment some other grief-stricken madman on the verge of revealing too much.
揙h梬ell, I抦 sorry.?Her voice is sympathetic and oddly sweet, lacking her usual caustic bite.
揧ou should get some rest, and I should finish my scotch. We抣l talk Monday. Sweet dreams, Nevermore.?
Probably not the best goodbye for an employee. Too late.
揧ou too梥weet dreams.?
Bullshit. I don抰 want her and sweet existing in the same universe.
That抯 how we got here, sniping at each other, and somehow trading secrets better kept inside the dark chambers of our hearts.
揋ood night,?I mutter.
When I look down, my screen is blinking.
She抯 gone like the strange little fever dream she is, fading back into the bottomless night.
7
Ungainly Fowl (Dakota)
I wake up in a tangled fit of sheets with a curse on my lips.
All from the kind of insane dream you instantly remember梐nd regret.
I wore my wedding dress.
Dad walked me down the aisle.
I was walking to meet Jay梬hat should抳e happened in real life on that awful day梑ut when my dad put my hand in the groom抯, he wasn抰 that backstabbing mouse of a man anymore.
The stranger groom wore an impeccably tailored Haughty But Nice tuxedo.
He was taller and broader and more imposing than Jay, and his eyes sparkled like fine polished mahogany. When he smiled at me, oh God.
I went from bride to butterflies to butter.
A giddy emotional noodle who couldn抰 decide if she wanted to break down crying in confusion, or in happy ugly tears for a man who pushes every button.
The second it hit me who I was about to marry, I burst into a raven and flew away.
Okay, so dreams are hardly ever realistic, even when they抮e annoyingly real in other ways.
The raven probably came from my shoulder tattoo. Since I couldn抰 live down the constant jokes about being an English major named Poe, one day, I decided to just rock it.
I always loved 揟he Raven,?anyway.
The godly tux and Lincoln effing Burns obviously came from the stress I have to deal with at work. Oh, plus the glaring fact that Lincoln was the last person I talked to before I went to bed.
I don抰 have a crush on my boss.
I don抰.
I抦 not even stupid enough to think love is real.
Still, it抯 the kind of dream you have to process.
So, I sit at my tiny table with my notebook, working through the chaos that抯 my brain the only way I know how. I dive into words, pounding out meter and rhyme and feelings like juggling knives.
When a sharp sound goes off behind me, I almost go tumbling out of my chair.
揧ou should really start locking your door. Some crazy could walk in.?Eliza strolls inside, holding a steaming hot mug with both hands.
My heart leaps at the sound of her voice and I slam my notebook shut.
揧ikes. Thanks for the reminder. Can抰 believe I forgot to lock up last night.?
Was I that distracted from talking to him?
I don抰 want to know. I also don抰 need anyone else thinking I抳e fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I抦 writing angsty poetry inspired by my cinnamon roll snorting boss.
揧ou okay? I didn抰 mean to scare you.?She sits down beside me and slides the mug over. 揟ry it. I抦 calling it Raven Blend just for you.?
揥hat? Now you抮e cracking Poe jokes too??
揘ope. I named it after your bitchin?tattoo.?
I burst out laughing.
God. Eliza抯 humor reminds me that my encounters with the bosshole have made me overly defensive.
揝orry. I think I just woke up a little tightly wound today. Probably the new job or something.?I pick up the drink and take a long, pleasing sip. 揙ooh. Wow, Eliza梬ow.?
揚erks you up before the caffeine hits, doesn抰 it? It抯 two parts cinnamon and one vanilla.?
揑t抯 wonderful,?I say, praying I抦 not developing a cinnamon aversion.
揥hat抯 wrong??
I take another drink. It抯 good, but not mind-blowing the second time around, and I don抰 think it抯 the coffee itself.
揙h, nothing. Nothing with this drink, that抯 for sure.?
揃ut you抮e feeling restless? It抯 that dillweed you work for again, isn抰 it??
I sigh. 揘o.?
揟he job? I was afraid writing about holy matrimony all day might be hard. But if anyone can do it, it抯 you.?