“I do?” It’s embarrassing, needing this approval, but I can’t help myself.
“Sure.” He shrugs. “If you like that treadmill.”
“What treadmill?” I’m certain Deiss isn’t talking about my stationary runs three times a week. The Husband Huntress says there’s nothing more annoying than a fit woman who brags about her workouts.
“You don’t ever feel like you’re on a treadmill?” He waves his hand lazily, like it’s something we’ve talked about, even though it’s definitely not. “Staring at the same wall as you keep clocking your progress, even though you know you’re just going to keep running and running?”
“And what if I have felt like that?” I have. I definitely have.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, distracted by something happening behind me. “Personally, I’d probably want to find out what was on the other side of that wall.”
CHAPTER 2
It’s Friday afternoon, and my colleagues are hustling to wrap things up so they can leave straight from our weekly summary meeting. I take one last glance over my cubicle. It’s perfectly in order, exactly how I want to come back to it on Monday. There’s nothing worse than returning from the weekend to find last week’s chaos already seeping into an unblemished new week. The picture of the five of us at the fair is crooked, and I straighten it, pressing my thumb against the tack that holds it up. We look so young. But not as young as my mom and I look in the picture next to it.
As much as I love these snapshots, I can’t help wondering if I shouldn’t have some more recent memories worth decorating my workspace with. What have I been doing for the last seven years? Is Deiss right that I’ve been staring at a wall? If I have, it’s a cubicle wall made of felt, which I’m sure is even sadder than whatever wall he was envisioning.
I feel a flare of annoyance at his audacity to judge me, but it fades as quickly as it arrives. Like Deiss puts any thought at all into anything other than music. Unlike me, he’s almost certainly already forgotten about it.
“I’m telling you, Olivia.” Elena waits for me to slide my suit jacket on. “You have to go to a psychic. If I hadn’t tried it, I’d never have discovered that my future husband will be wearing a red t-shirt when I meet him. Do you have any idea how much that narrows my search? It’ll save me countless bad dates.”
“So, you’re only going to accept dates from red-shirted men?” Despite the effort to keep my voice neutral, my skepticism cracks through. I’ve been off my game today, my brain sluggish from churning over Deiss’s words and the enormous decision due by the end of the day. The loss of my home or crippling debt. I should know by now what I’m going to do.
She takes a step back in surprise, which is actually helpful as we have a meeting to get to, not that Elena seems to care. In her striped stockings and fuzzy sweater, she looks like she’s on her way to pick up one of her bad dates at a carnival instead. For all I know, she might be. She’s seemingly oblivious to the bustle of work going on around us. Her desk is still littered with task lists that need to be addressed, and I can see from here that she has approximately thirty-seven open tabs on her computer.
“Well, no,” she says. “But the pressure will be lifted if I show up and he’s not wearing a red shirt, because I’ll know nothing will come of it. That’s what makes a date bad. The pressure.”
Is it? I think back to my last date, unable to recall any pressure. I simply followed the Husband Huntress’s dating guidelines and maintained a sense of mysteriousness. （She’s proven herself right again and again—men seem delighted to project their desires onto a blank slate.） Even without any pressure, though, the date was inarguably bad.
The thing the Husband Huntress neglects to mention is how unsatisfying it is, sitting there politely, playing the part of the perfect listener while a man named Roger fills all the space with cycling talk. Leading out and half-wheeling. Lycra, slippery roads, and gel packs. I’d successfully feigned interest in all of it while fiddling with the loose press-on nail on my pinkie. I kept imagining a game of table football where I tugged it off and flicked it with my middle finger, his steaming soup bowl the goalpost.
“That makes sense,” I say, hoping my skepticism didn’t hurt her feelings. Elena has real friends whose responsibility it is to ground her in reality, a whole circle of people she seems to constantly be doing fun things with outside of work. Things she never invites me to. I just happen to be her cubicle neighbor.