Revisions and Decisions

[Kolen]

On 4/27/2022 at 2:29 AM, starpollen said:

Loving this story.  Definitely would enjoy all parts from his POV, if you’re up for it. ☺️

Yes. Yes. Yes please!!

[marzipan]

Another section - this time from Medan's perspective, paralleling the first section from Viola's POV. I've never written from Medan's perspective before, so it was a fun experiment.  Thanks for requesting it! 

It was a toss-up which was more annoying - the constant low-key itch in my sinuses keeping me on edge, or my mother’s patronizing condescension in response. I’d known, even as I’d agreed to help out with budget analysis and review, that working alongside my mother was a terrible idea. The nepotism factor alone was disqualifying, but also, having my mother scrutinizing my every move was so profoundly irritating that I was already confident that we would leave the workday in a mutual snit. 

 I had considered texting her to tell her I’d be late to work - just to give myself enough time to get back to my apartment, change my clothes, take a shower, and get myself back into more or less working order - but, given the nepotism factor, I decided against it. I was determined to take this job as seriously as every other job I’d ever held - and there was no way in hell I’d admit to any employer not related to me by blood that I wasn’t going to make it into the office on time because of what was, in its essence, just a sniffle. However, some decisions you regret as soon as you make them.

I’d employed my primary tricks for stymying an allergy attack - pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth, gripping the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, sharp mental commands to just keep it together -  but my recalcitrant sinuses appeared to take an obnoxious pleasure in embarrassing me and satisfying my mother’s ability to criticize my every move. Filling Mother in on the details of my morning (a lost St. Bernard named Luther commandeering my car’s passenger seat and shedding all over my upholstery while drooling on my trouser leg) didn’t satisfy her. “You mean you let a dog into your car, and you drove like this?” 

“Uh, no, I had my robot butler temporarily take the wheel. Yes, of course I drove like this. How do you think I got here?” I knew it was a little unfair of me to be snappish. After all, distracted driving is generally to be avoided, and it's hard not to be “distracted” when every breath has to be carefully measured to avoid unsettling the delicate allergic balance, like every particle of inhaled dander and pollen was part of an elaborate game of internal Jenga. However, I felt mostly justified. I’d endured stifle after stifle and ignored the repressed congestion subsequently dripping into my throat, I’d been careful not to touch my eyes so at least I could count on being able to see street signs, and I’d so exceeded my allergic threshold that the very roof of my mouth was itching. All that to be punctual, only for her to scold me like I was a child? Well, excuse me. 

Expending the effort to speak was an error in judgment on my part, which I could tell from the itch flaring from a manageable tingle to a burn that made my eyes water. I winced reflexively, pressing my fist against my nose as hard as possible. Keeping the triad of sneezes that followed as quiet as possible felt a little like a perverse revenge, although it mostly just made my chest ache. 

My mother tsk-tsked: “You shouldn’t have - oh, and there you go again. Bless you. You know what dander does to you!” 

Unfortunately, I was unable to speak at that present moment, so the choicer comments that sprang to mind remained unuttered. However, when there was a knock at the door and my mother blithely called the knocker inside, I was able to gasp a quick protest before the door swung open. I was confident that I looked like an absolute wreck, so it was a brilliant time for Mother to decide to introduce me to anyone who’d be my (temporary) coworker. It was going to be an uphill battle to get any of them to take me seriously anyway, so her timing couldn’t be worse..

“Ah, thank you, Viola! Take a seat - I’d like to go over the agenda for this afternoon’s meeting, if we could, please. You remember my son, Medan?” My mother’s voice was almost excruciatingly chipper - or maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for her pleasantries. 

I took a cautious breath, preparing myself to turn around, and when I didn’t immediately need to sneeze, I could relax a little bit. It was also reassuring that I already knew Viola as a former classmate - although I hadn’t seen her in ages. I knew she was my mother’s PA at the moment, although I couldn’t believe it. Based on observing Viola in school, it was clear that she could do anything she wanted to professionally - why the hell would she choose to stay here and play second fiddle to the most demanding boss looming over the workplace? 

 Admittedly, I’d had a bit of a soft spot for Viola. I appreciated that she knew I was her primary academic competition, and was almost touched that Viola took me seriously enough to know it. In the eyes of others among my peers, my stammer alone had disqualified me from being perceived as intelligent or having something to say. (It's fortunate for them that the stammer often prohibited me from telling them in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought of them.)

“Yes, of course! Hi!” Viola’s cheerfulness was somehow wholly inoffensive to me, while my mother’s chipperness put my teeth on edge. Hm. I didn’t have time to psychoanalyze that realization, because my mind was quickly turned to more pressing matters: namely, the obnoxious prickle making its way from the depths of my sinuses to the very tip of my nose, making the impulse to drag my knuckles across my dangerously reddening and alarmingly damp nostrils almost unbearably acute. Absolutely not now. Just ignore it. 

Urge temporarily repressed, I turned to face Viola, mustering as cordial a greeting as I could manage in as few syllables as possible. Breathing as little as possible until I could make a dignified exit seemed the best available strategy. In my state of distraction only one detail about Viola’s appearance blurrily registered: she’d changed up her hairstyle since high school. It looked good. 

“Dan, you’ll need to stay for this meeting, please.” Well, goddamn it. No spreadsheet was so important that it couldn’t wait. However, this was a job, and I was here as a consultant and as a subordinate, so I couldn’t very well fight her over that now. Also, I was aware that Viola’s eyes were flitting back and forth between me and my mother - I could guess that the undercurrent of conflict was making her nervous. She struck me as a person who would probably be more sensitive to interpersonal tensions than I was. 

“Yes, of course. May I see those papers, please?” I managed at least a veneer of professional courtesy, and the spreadsheets were a welcome distraction from the relentless allergic tickle coming and going in waves. Trying to speak through an allergy attack reminds me of my limited experience with learning how to surf in college  - you have to manage being in a state of total reactivity, where you just have to acknowledge that you are at the mercy of a far more powerful outside force, and you’re just going to have to adapt to its whims moment-by-moment. Perhaps that parallel was why I quit practicing surfing - I had enough of adapting to the inflexible, capricious whims of my own body just in regular day-to-day life.

 I could tell that my window for being able to speak was narrowing, based on the sudden quivering itch deep in my throat, so I took advantage of the moment to cue Viola to take control of the conversation. “Mother has been telling me about the applications you’ll be handling now. They sound quite time-consuming.”

She took up the prompt, giving me a moment to stare at the spreadsheets and try to gather myself. My eyes were watering so badly it was difficult to focus on the tiny numbers. However, when I blinked away the worst of it, the very first thing I noticed was a copy-paste cock-up. Not even an interesting mistake. I flipped to the next page, listening to Viola’s explanation as I checked the figures for obvious mistakes (an extra zero here… a probable formula error there…) and was blindsided by the allergic tickle flaring from “exceptionally annoying” to “demanding prompt attention.” A harsh pinch to the bridge of my nose temporarily quelled the pressure. 

“I’m sorry - are you okay?” Viola’s concern caught me by surprise. I suppose it was silly of me to expect that she would just ignore anything unusual signaling my discomfort, but I wished she would have. “Yes, thank you.” Of course my mother couldn’t let well enough alone: ““Don’t be daft, Dan. You look terrible.” 

My reply was more acerbic than I would usually have permitted myself - I try to avoid blatant sarcasm in the workplace - but the snark bubbled up reflexively. “Thank you so very much for your input, Mother. I don’t know how I missed your attainment of a medical degree.” Fortunately, she seemed to gather that I was in no mood to be scolded in front of a colleague, and she took the hint. 

Continuing my quick review, I glanced over typos to look for deeper structural problems - and indeed, there were many flaws beyond the purely cosmetic. “You weren’t the original compiler of the spreadsheets, I assume?” Viola seemed a little confused when I looked at her for confirmation. “No, I didn’t. I think Grace did before she left, if I remember correctly.” I had no idea who this Grace was, but I was fairly sure her departure was a blessing in disguise, if the incompetence displayed by this budget was any indication.

 “Yes, well, I assumed you hadn’t done these because they aren’t good.” A statement of undeniable fact, not one of opinion. I’d seen enough of Viola’s work to know she had higher standards than this - I used to look forward to her presentations in class, because they were among the few that were predictably interesting. 

“What’s wrong with them?” Viola stood up to peer over my shoulder at the spreadsheets - something else that probably would have annoyed me if she had been someone else, but didn’t even register as a blip on my mental radar when she did it. In fact, I instinctively lowered the sheets so she could see them better, tilting them toward her to share. 

Maybe it was because our sudden proximity felt so completely normal - so right - that I began a detailed explanation without sufficient caution and foresight. “Well, first, it underestimates your operating budget, and draws funds that should rightly be applied to your overhead to compensate, which is probably why your -” Viola stepped a little closer, shifting just ever slightly, and her hand grazed my sleeve, her fingers barely - almost imperceptibly - sliding against my wrist. Although it was embarrassing to admit to myself, her casual touch derailed my train of thought, allowing an abrupt mental pivot with just a moment to spare from finances to the absolutely irrepressible need to sneeze. The sudden burning itch in my nose and throat, the involuntary gasp for air to fuel the allergy attack teetering on the cusp of fruition, and the ache as my overtaxed pectorals and abdominal muscles involuntarily engaged in what was apparently their primary task these days - keeping my inconveniently omnipresent allergies as quiet as possible - were all prime indicators. 

The split-second moment of confident recognition that, in fact, there was no way to unring this particular bell afforded me the time to hand Viola the budget notes and twist away for a modicum of privacy. Sharply instructing myself to just let it happen - repressing it would, at this point, just be more noticeable, time-consuming, and obtrusive - I tuned out my mother and Viola as much as possible and sucked in a perilously hitching breath. 

[EveP]

Oh, poor Medan!

[sprinkles287]

Ahhhh! I’m so excited to see this posted. Such a great update. I love seeing through Medan’s eyes

[Kolen]

Eee yay!! So happy happy

[marzipan]

Back with another mirroring installment from Medan's POV. I hope y'all enjoy it.  

Letting allergies just happen always feels sort of like the “if you relax and don’t struggle, the quicksand won’t suck you in” cliche, and my success at just relaxing is very variable. This time around, I impulsively stifled each sneeze, quelling them with all the force my chest and throat could manage. This decision came not for any logical reason or from any misbegotten sense of embarrassment. While it is undeniably illogical (not to mention futile) to get into a petty grudge match with your own allergies, crushing them back still felt like a minor victory. 

It was a relief to turn around and just see Viola. Now that I was somewhat less distracted, I could focus on her more, and I was determined to get back to the business at hand. I generally categorize people’s responses to my allergies into three categories - disgust, pity, or awkwardness - and I suspected that she’d be a “pity” person. 

I started to pick up where I left off, but Viola - seemingly not sure what to say - blurted a slightly belated “bless you.” In my own effort to indicate that she was under no obligation to acknowledge my state, I skipped over her tentative blessing. “I see my mother has abandoned you to explain things to me. That’s probably for the best. The woman has many virtues, and brevity is not one of them.” Viola seemed flustered by my turn back to budgets. She had a nervous habit of picking at her fingernail polish - a cheerful yellow that matched her headband and sweater  - and I suspected, by the end of this conversation, her nails would be chipped beyond all help. 

“Oh, um, yes. Well… how much has Elisa already told you? I don’t want to bore you with repetition, because I imagine you already know most of it.” Boring me with stuff I already knew was not a problem. In fact, since I could suddenly feel a slight tickle emerging at the back of my throat that indicated speech would quickly no longer be my strong suit, I’d much rather listen and be bored. Hopefully she’d talk long enough that I could listen while silently stopping this allergy attack in its tracks, ideally by sheer force of will power. “Pretend I know nothing, please.” Viola looked like she wanted to question me more, but fortunately, she thought better of it. 

 “Okay… well, let’s start with these budget figures…” Oh God, this is a ridiculous way to begin a workday. I wanted to just roll my eyes and succumb, since the pattern of allergic buildup was such an obnoxiously well-worn road. The itch would start low in my throat, annoying but slight enough that it felt like I should be able to swallow and get rid of it. Then, my eyes would start to water again, slipping the itch up a notch to more of a pale burn. Then, a couple unavoidable inhalations later, the itch would descend to my sinuses - and there it was. I tried discreetly pinching the bridge of my nose to lessen the immediacy of the need to sneeze, repressing the urge to gasp in discomfort and thereby interrupt Viola’s explanation. 

At moments like this, all external stimuli is just too much freight on a figurative tipping ship. I closed my eyes and tried to freeze, focusing all my attention on controlling my breathing. Don’t you dare inhale. Don’t flinch. Don’t touch your eyes. Don’t blink. Don’t swallow. Don’t sniffle. Just... Do… Nothing. 

Viola’s apologetic voice interrupted my concentration, prompting me to instinctively open my eyes to look at her - a definite mistake, as I could feel potentially incriminating allergic tears threatening to spill. “Uh, you know, none of this is urgent. We can wait until you’re not…” She waved a hand vaguely at me, seemingly indicating my general state of ever-increasing damp itchiness. Like most people, Viola appeared incapable of looking me in the eye. I recognized lack of eye contact in some folks - especially my colleagues - as evidence that I was intimidating them, and that was ordinarily a perfectly satisfactory explanation for me. After many years of being condescended to, I sometimes quite enjoyed having the upper hand in conversation and being capable of intimidating people. Still, I didn’t like making Viola nervous. 

Since I was unabashedly watching her, when she tentatively glanced at me, we immediately locked eyes. Oops. If I was trying not to make her nervous, avoiding intense, pointed staring would probably make for a good start. “Thanks, but I think I’ll multitask.” 

“Are you sure?” Her voice was so anxious that I smiled at her impulsively to reassure her.  “I daresay if you try waiting on me, you’ll be waiting rather a long wait.” 

 “Was that a The King’s Speech reference?” 

“But of course.” 

A suddenly all-consuming itch deep in my sinuses captured my train of thought. I pressed my tongue against my front teeth, distracting myself by starting to count backward from sixty until the itch subsided enough that I could prompt Viola to get started on her explanation. “Carry on.” I blinked to clear my blurry vision, and when Viola didn’t start talking, refocused on her.  Maybe she wanted to wait until I wasn’t such a mess, and that’s why she’d asked? I was surprised to see that she wasn’t fiddling with forms in an effort to not pay attention - she was watching me so intently, with an expression that seemed almost… awed? I didn’t know what to make of it.  “...if you don’t mind.” 

“No, I don’t mind.” Hmm. She politely started her explanation and I tried to devote my fullest attention to it. Mentally repeating each word Viola said kept me as focused as possible when also trying to make sure I wouldn’t inadvertently interrupt her train of thought with an ill-timed sneeze. When she stopped mid-sentence, I blinked at her in annoyance. I’m  trying to do my part - shut up, listen, learn, and advise - and I can’t even manage that? “Go ahead. I am still listening.” Oops. Her slightly wounded expression was a clear indicator that I’d sounded more irritated than I’d meant to. I wasn’t sure how to react - apologizing isn’t my strong suit - and my deliberation took my attention away from where it should have been: my simmering allergies suddenly hitting a boiling point while my back was turned. 

“Ng’xxk! H’xxgh! Heeh…tch! Ng’xxk!” I narrowly avoided wincing as I crushed each sneeze as best I could. My chest was aching, and my throat didn’t feel great either, but I was pretty sure I could count on Viola worrying more if I betrayed that fact. When Viola blessed me again, I felt like it would be more telling if I didn’t respond than if I did, so I muttered a grudging thanks. I dislike having my fits acknowledged if I’m going out of my way to be as quiet and unobtrusive about it as possible, but even in my increasingly prickly mood, I knew Viola meant well. 

She extended a kleenex to me, another gesture I’d usually resent as a kind of veiled personal insult, an indication that someone thinks I can’t handle the situation myself. However, as the urge to sneeze escalated from an ignorable tickle to a completely unavoidable reflex, I sharply told myself not to be an absolute ass and to just accept the help.  

“Httxthh! Httk! Httchhhh! Hehhtsh! Htshk!” Well, that wasn’t well done. Despite my redoubled commitment to quiet containment, the stifles were just scraping my throat raw and threatening to double me over to lessen the pressure on my abdominal muscles. I couldn’t quite bear to open my eyes, as that would necessarily involve catching a glimpse of Viola’s reaction. Be her response disgust, pity, or embarrassment on my behalf, I didn’t want to know.  

Her soft voice interrupted my concentration. “Are you okay? Allergies, huh?” 

The impulse to respond sarcastically to the first question with something like “obviously I’ve never been better” was strong, but given Viola’s kindness, I didn’t. “I’m f-f…” At least for me, slipping back into a stutter after years of speech therapy felt like turning a corner in what you thought was a familiar space and unexpectedly running headfirst into a brick wall. Combined with my hope to use as little oxygen as possible, verbal communication was looking like a less and less attractive option. “I’m fine. And yes.” Despite my terse reply, the itch reasserted itself as soon as I inhaled. Restricting my breathing was making me lightheaded, and I didn’t think my final shreds of dignity could survive  having to clear out my increasingly horrifying congestion in Viola’s presence. 

Right. Time to cut my losses and get out. I stood up, nonverbally communicating my desire to leave. Viola stepped back accommodatingly, butI didn’t want her to think that I was just leaving her on her own with my mother’s budget demands. Estimating how long it would take for me to get this fit over with, I hazarded a quick guess: “How about I meet you in your office to review the grant in a half-hour?”

Viola was still staring at me, her dark red lipstick making the fact that her mouth was forming a perfect “O” quite noticeable. Come on, Viola, this is a somewhat urgent question... “Htcht! Tch! Heeeh… hchttt! Tchh! Oh, for fuck's sake." Congested to the point of overflowing, I was more frustrated and disgusted with myself than Viola seemed to be with me. Taking her relative non-disgust into consideration, I weighed my options. The probability that, as I found my way to a more private place, I’d just run into people I didn’t know, who I’d have to introduce myself to and, with my luck, work with later, seemed forbiddingly high. I might as well stay with just the one witness.

I closed the door and locked it so, were my mother to return, she’d have to announce herself by knocking. “Viola, hand me…” I was going to start to stammer again if I kept talking, so I clammed up and pointed. 

She clearly was on the same page as me in terms of an appreciation for the situation’s escalating direness, because, after starting to pull out a single Kleenex like a person usually would, she appeared to think better of it and yanked out about twelve to hand me. I might have laughed if I had any discretionary breath with which to laugh, and if only I didn’t 100% agree with her that I needed each and every one of them. She let her fingers linger on the back of my hand for a moment before pulling away, a silent gesture of sympathy that temporarily distracted me from my increasingly hitching breaths. 

“...what’s wrong?” I half-shrugged in response. The only thing that’s really “wrong” is that this is all just such a waste of your time. Anyway, there was no way I was going to be able to reply, and I proved myself right. “Ksh! Tsh! Ekksheew! Hrrrshoo! Hsheee! Hshhooo! Ehh, eehh, Tsh! Tsh! Tsh! Tsh! Tsh! Tsh! Tsh!” 

A combination of resignation and lightheadedness made me sit down and settle in. I’m constitutionally fortunate that I don’t tend to get too embarrassed over stupid things that I can’t help in the first place, but I could definitely resent that an allergy attack was hijacking my morning’s productivity. 

As soon as I felt the slightest hint of tapering off - the burn reducing to a prickle - I decided that I was putting an end to this. While I cringed at the thought of blowing my nose in front of another human being, I accepted the necessity if I wanted to avoid unseemly drippiness. The slightest relief of pressure felt positively glorious. I could breathe again, and that meant I could redirect my attention back to Viola. She didn’t look impatient with me, but I certainly was. "Nothing's wrong." 

I was startled by Viola raising an eyebrow at me in a mild, but very clear, challenge. The callout on my own bullshit was unexpected, but I also couldn’t help but respect it. “Just an unexpected exposure to an allergen. I was... unprepared." I disliked taking allergy medication, mostly because it made me feel like I was functioning in a blurry, tired haze. Particularly in professional contexts where I wanted my brain to be at peak functioning, I’d almost rather be uncomfortable and gross but fully operational. 

"How so? Can I get you anything to help?" 

I remembered Viola as someone who would give a person the shirt off her back, so I wasn’t surprised by the offer. However, I disliked being an inconvenience as much as I disliked wasting her time. “Not unless you have a change of clothes, a shower, a bottle of Zyrtec, and an ice pack stuffed in that briefcase. And anyway, I was just driving to work and saw a woman chasing after her dog. I told her I’d retrieve it and meet her back at her address, given that she’d been playing keep-away with it for the last couple of hours. She was -” Ugh, why does it have to be that just talking about it is apparently enough to make me need to sneeze? I stifled the rogue sneeze, coughing as it caught in my throat, and then continued “confused but willing, so I caught it and drove it back to her place, which made me late. And completely riddled with histamines, apparently.” 

The acknowledgment that I was drowning in my own allergic juices was as close as I could come to an apology. At this point, I felt pretty sure Viola was more ready to get out of this conversation than I was, I was barely able to string together a sentence, I was interrupting her workday and probably cutting into the time she could take for a lunch break, and I was sure she had a thousand tasks on her to-do list that my mother would be passive-aggressive about were they not accomplished in a timely fashion.

I was so convinced that Viola was just waiting for a polite moment to leave that, for a second, I thought I’d misheard her: “I think that was really nice of you.” 

“Nice” is not an adjective I would apply to myself, and I felt duty-bound to set Viola straight, lest she think I’d gone out of my way for a stranger out of altruism. “Not really, no. I just don’t like seeing people do things wrong.” 

“What was she 'doing wrong'?” One corner of her mouth quirked up as she made air quotes at me. I wasn’t sure if she was teasing me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it if she was. Her crinkle-eyed half smile diffused my impulse to get defensive, so I gave her a straight answer.

Now that I wasn’t so distracted, I noticed that Viola was a little flushed. Unlike me - as pale as they come - it was harder to be sure if she was actually blushing given her darker complexion, but her cheeks looked rosier. My first guess was that I was unintentionally still somehow making her nervous, although reading people’s faces wasn’t my strong suit. When she stepped a little closer, leaning toward me just ever so slightly, arms relaxed at her sides, I momentarily revised my guess for a split-second before dismissing the matter out of hand. Whether she was or wasn’t nervous, or whether she was or wasn’t maybe flirting just a tiny bit, was irrelevant and immaterial. However, the second when I wondered was enough to put a dent in my composure. 

My phone vibrating interrupted all speculation. I immediately assumed it was Mum in a snit, and my assumption was correct (“Meet me in Room A124. Sharon is IMPOSSIBLE. Crisis!”). Mum flourished on drama. “It’s Mother. Looks like she’s extremely salty about her phone call with Sharon. I…” Oh God, not again. I have to get this dog-infested jacket off.  “May I tell her that I’m meeting you in your office in a half-hour to discuss the grant?”

Viola nodded. “Yeah, sure. That’d work for me.” Despite having delayed her, inconvenienced her, and probably on some level disgusted her, her smile back at me was so genuinely warm and friendly that I couldn’t help smiling back.

Now that I was standing up, I was better able to engage my core muscles to repress a stray sneeze as I walked out the door. Viola still called out a genial, polite “Bless you!” My nod of acknowledgment was as close as I could get to graciousness as I bolted from the office.

[sprinkles287]

Ahhhhh! I admit to checking this thread daily in the hopes that there’s be more and I’m so happy. I’m off to re-read ten more times or so! I like that he’s not embarrassed and I love finding out that Viola is not as subtle as she might wish.  Medan is just. Perfect.

[EveP]

Wonderful update! So nice to get to read Medan's side. I love your writing!

[Victoria]

I love this guy! Can't wait to read more!

[marzipan]

@sprinkles287- thank you so much! What a lovely compliment - I know the feeling of regularly checking to see if a story has been updated very well, and I'm sorry it took me so long to post this segment!

@EveP- I'm glad you're enjoying Medan's point of view - it's fun to write a character who is a little more prickly than Viola! 

@VictoriaThank you! I'm glad you're enjoying Medan, too. 

This bit carries on with Medan's perspective, paralleling the initial section in Viola's office. I'm already so looking forward to writing their coffee date!  They're warming up to each other. 😊 I always enjoy feedback and I welcome requests, should you have any! 

Texting Mum that I’d be there in just a moment provided a convenient excuse to not make eye contact with anyone in the hall. When I walked in, she looked up from the laptop she was banging away on. “Feeling better?”

 I settled for a noncommittal “mmm.” Mum would usually not be distracted so easily, but fortunately, her burning desire to fill me in on Sharon’s latest infraction surpassed her desire to subject me to the third degree. 

I swiped at my nose viciously when an itch sprung up. That general annoyance transferred into my interruption in Mum’s tirade: “Why don’t you fire her?” 

This seemed to be the obvious solution to the problem, but Mum’s craving for an arch-nemesis perpetually overcomes reason. Mum lives on her wrath and we both know it, so I wasn’t surprised when she deflected.

“Dan, you should ask Viola to review the records from the Lexington account through this fiscal year with you. They’re archived in the basement.” She started to furiously type again, which I took as a dismissal.

The basement was mostly vacant, dotted with stacked filing cabinets, dented plastic tubs, and a few archival boxes collecting dust on the cement floor. Given my already-precarious state, I wasn’t surprised when my breath caught. As my eyes fluttered shut, I was able to determine that I was completely alone, so I didn’t bother stifling. “Htshuuh! Aschuuuh!”

I startled at the unexpected amplifying echo in the open basement, quickly muffling the next three sneezes into my jacket. As my rebellious lungs stubbornly resisted my wishes and sucked in a burning breath, I realized I was burying my face in the very jacket that damn St. Bernard had cheerily slumbered upon throughout the unplanned road trip chauffeured by yours truly. Pinching my nose shut, I waited until the uncomfortably skittering itch fluttering against my nostrils receded to an arguably more concerning but less immediately distracting pressure in my chest.

The papers were clearly catalogued based on #vibes instead of any rational organizational system, so I was relieved to discover that I still had six minutes to spare after finding the crumpled papers in the back of a box simply marked "L". It was a narrow but sufficient window of time to get myself a bit cleaned up.

The tiny bathroom in the corner of the basement was a figurative oasis. I’ve rarely been so happy to locate a sink. I peeled off my jacket, tie, and, after a moment of contemplation, my shirt. I didn’t fancy getting half-naked in an office bathroom, but, when faced with contact dermatitis, one must do what one must do. My forearms had already broken out in a rash, and my chest and neck would be next without intervention. 

A quick phone check revealed that I had two minutes before I was supposed to be at Viola’s office. Right. Come on, man. Pull yourself together. 

I filled the sink basin with cold water and dunked my head, relishing the refreshing coolness. In the absence of any towels, I shook my head hard enough that water droplets sprayed the mirror. Grimacing at my damp face while re-buttoning my shirt, I determined that my jacket was beyond all help and was completely unpresentable, so I slipped it into the cabinet under the sink, planning to return for it later. 

I hurried to the elevator and punched the button for Viola’s floor with an increasingly grim sense of determination: I’ll be on time if it kills me.

Viola opened her office door with a smile that betrayed no trace of what would be justifiable annoyance with me. “Hi! Come on in. Let me take those.” 

As I stepped inside, I reflexively glanced over to her bookshelves. I’m always curious what people I think are interesting are reading. The next thing I noticed were her potted plants, placed on shelves alongside her book collection. She had a couple orchids, which I interpreted as a testament to her patience. I’m no botanist, but I knew enough to know that orchids were finicky. 

However, the purple blossoms of the adjacent lavender were worrying. A colleague of mine in grad school was into essential oils, and her supposedly “calming” lavender diffuser had, somewhat ironically, sent my allergies into overdrive. By that point, though, we’d entered the existential crisis portion of exam preparation when you find yourself gazing into the yawning abyss of professional and personal humiliation, so I’d just popped a benadryl, brewed another pot of coffee to counteract benadryl’s tendency to knock me out, and tried to just ignore the lavender’s aftereffects. Somehow, I didn’t think Viola would just ignore it. 

The office was so very, very Viola. The plush sofa, the rosy lighting, the notable absence of self-aggrandizing certificates and awards hung on the walls - it was so genuinely modest. As she offered me a seat, I decided against saying anything about the potential lavender issue. This was her space, and it was exactly right for her. Anything about the little island of coziness she’d established in the midst of the cutthroat world of business management which might disagree with my body’s malfunctioning immune response was my problem.

I tuned back into her pleasantries with some confusion when I realized she was holding a bottle of Zyrtec out to me expectantly. It was new - still plastic-covered - and it took me a moment to realize she’d gotten it for me. 

“Y-y-” Whenever I get knocked off my equilibrium, my stammer pops back up. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. I hope it helps.” A virtue of stuttering is that I developed a capacity for in-depth deliberation before speaking and a higher-than-average tolerance for silent breaks in conversation. I didn’t know how to reply, anyway. I reminded myself that I was sure Viola would have done the exact same thing for anybody, even a total stranger. Still, the way she was looking at me felt… particular to me, almost intimate in its simple empathy. It was simultaneously discomfiting and strangely sweet. 

Viola apparently didn’t find the silence comfortable, as she broke it with a kind of panicky urgency. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous -” 

My God, what absolute pillock has ever made her feel bad for being nice? My reply - “Jesus Christ, Viola, why are you apologizing?” - was consequently probably a little sharp. Accepting people’s kindness isn’t a strong suit of mine, but I wanted to reassure her that I’d taken no offense  - and also, I could feel the residual pressure in my chest rising into my throat and threatening to make itself known, so medication seemed like a wise idea. 

I could almost feel my mother saying “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” as I swallowed my ego and thanked Viola. Let’s bring this conversation back to solid ground, shall we? “Tell me about the budget shortfall. I’m listening.” She startled, like she’d forgotten the flimsy stacks of paper behind her. “Oh. Right.” 

I hesitated to sit down. It felt almost too comfortable, like I was impinging on her space by just being there, but I guessed that continuing to stand would make her nervous. I closed my eyes for less distracted listening - distractions including the curious desire to watch Viola’s nervous mannerisms, like the way she kept tugging on a loose curl that was slightly out of alignment with the rest of her bangs. Her artlessness was very cute, which wasn’t conducive to focusing. 

With visual evidence of Viola’s nervousness erased, her complete mastery of her field was so clear. It wasn’t surprising to me that she was in touch with every facet of projects being run, but her ability to convey the information without pause or confusion impressed me. Distilling complex processes into simple explanations has never been my strong suit (I’m much more prone to the “I’ll just do it myself” than the “let me explain this to you” mindset), and I admire the ability in others.

Viola’s quiet, mellifluous voice was a pleasant external distraction from the tingling creeping into my sinuses. Staying quiet and still, concentrating on the numbers Viola was reciting, and focusing my exclusive attention on systematically running through the list of possibilities for maximizing financial returns felt relatively secure, and she didn’t seem to mind me being quiet. I was sure if I spoke, I’d start sneezing all over again, so it just seemed simpler and more efficient to listen, absorb, and prepare myself for the next onslaught instead of interrupting her with a question - and then the unavoidable allergy attack - in the middle of her explanation. If I couldn’t respond immediately, I could at least have the professional courtesy to not interrupt. 

The lavender appeared to be loosening my congestion, making each breath a calculated risk in terms of avoiding indiscreet sniffling. My handkerchief was in my pocket, but the situation felt so precarious that I didn’t want to move even slightly, lest I disturb the delicate balance that was, at least for the moment, allowing me to stay quiet and my allergies to stay controlled. Blowing my nose would make me sneeze; sniffling would make me sneeze; opening my eyes to the bright office lights would make me sneeze; taking my fingers away from the bridge of my nose would make me sneeze. There was no possibility for prevention, only postponement. 

“And… I guess that’s just about it. We’re hoping to be able to have a surplus and reallocate $25,000 at the end of the next quarter, if that’s helpful at all. Um… do you have any questions?” I actually had a series of questions,, but now was not the moment. As soon as I blinked, the remote possibility that I’d make it out of Viola’s office without a temporary allergic interruption vanished. Well, if I can’t avoid being inconvenient, I can at least be tidy. I reached into my pocket for my handkerchief and held up a “just a sec” finger to Viola. It definitely wouldn’t be a “just a sec” kind of fit - but maybe Viola’s optimism was already rubbing off on me. 

I couldn’t see how she responded to my nonverbal communique - my eyes were already scrunched shut. Engaging every available muscle to keep this fit as quiet as possible was a challenge, given that my abdominal muscles had already pretty well had it with the morning’s repeated (and frustrated) efforts to suppress the swelling urgency of needing desperately to just expel the potent, if insignificant, allergens instead of persistently trying to delay the inevitable. 

I could barely draw a full breath between sneezes, in a predictable but tortuous rhythm. It felt vaguely akin to the mythical Sisyphus’ torment - expending all his strength to roll a stone up a steep slope only to be forced to step aside and watch the force of gravity inexorably pull the rock back down the hill. Each sneeze brought a second of respite, but the reflexive urgency of regaining my breath meant that the prickling tickle would immediately escalate to the point of no return as soon as I inhaled, keeping the reaction cycling along in an boringly inescapable circuit.

The catch-22 of it all kept me pinned to the sofa - I was sure I’d be prohibitively dizzy if I stood up. I felt Viola settle down next to me. I couldn’t figure out why she had moved closer - my limited personal experience would suggest that most people prefer giving me a wide berth when I’m incapacitated, probably because they (accurately) assume that I’’d be feeling particularly defensive and acerbic in the wake of such a public display of vulnerability.

 Still, I could see no point in pretending what was happening wasn’t happening. “Well. This is… exasperating. I-hheehh….” God, every hitching breath was so incredibly aggravating. I couldn’t see Viola’s face, but her quiet response of “It’s fine” was oddly reassuring. It definitely didn’t feel all too “fine” - both in terms of wasting her time and in terms of the exquisite agony of escalating itchiness building with each unquenchably hitching breath. “Eeeh… KXNTheeehh -hep-KHttsh! Heeh-prsh!” 

Okay. Maybe I have a moment.  “I can help you with the grants. The first thing-” Well, nope, guess not -“ Httsh! Httcht! Htsht! Hshttt! Ahhtshxt!” 

Viola, ever-considerate, noticed that I was on the deeply undignified cusp of drowning in my own mucus and brought me a handful of kleenex. I resisted the impulse to feel defensive and get snide. After all, she was just acknowledging a three-fold objective, inarguable truth: 1) I was a mess, 2) I would keep sneezing until I was a shriveled husk of a human being if I didn’t just take a damn moment to blow my nose, and 3) better to assume control of the situation than to allow one’s bodily fluids to leak in a colleague’s carefully decorated office. 

All 100% true - but I couldn’t countenance the prospect of blowing my nose in front of Viola. Despite realizing that she’d already seen an absolute masterpiece of uncontrolled allergy attack, it just felt too uncouth. Again holding up my finger to ask her to wait on me, I stepped into the hall, taking a moment to be grateful that the hall was empty. I winced in disgust at the damp gurgling as I cleared out evidence of the morning’s tribulation, knowing that the moment of relief would last about two seconds when I went back into the lavender’s purview. Well, no time like the present. Get back in there.

As soon as I opened the door, Viola asked me if I was okay. I shrugged. Technically… yes. Inconvenienced, certainly. Annoyed, definitely. Itchy as all hell? 100%. In imminent danger of anaphylaxis? Nope. So, yes. I’m pretty sure that balances out to be “okay.” “Is… this… all still from the dog this morning?”

I was unaccustomed to people asking questions about my allergies - mostly, they were as eager to ignore them as I was. I instinctively wanted to stonewall, but I also didn’t want to lie to Viola. Lying seemed like a distinctly ungrateful way to reciprocate her genuine openness. “Um. No.” 

She raised her eyebrows at me. Well, not volunteering information isn’t technically lying. It’s just… not answering. I stayed quiet until she prompted me again with “No?” 

“No.” At least that’s something. And true. 

“Then what’s… what’s…” 

As firmly as possible, I insisted “It’s fine” in an end-of-story tone intended to convey that this particular line of questioning was well and truly over. “It’s pretty clearly not 100% fine, given…” She waved a hand at me, yet again bringing my attention to the aforementioned point 1 of the trifold truth: I was a mess. 

Honesty coupled with minimization seemed the only available route. “The lavender on your bookshelf. But it’s honestly fine.” Both statements were accurate. Being reduced to a quivering mass of histamines obviously wasn’t the way I'd choose to spend a Monday morning, but it was no reason to call off a workday. 

“You knew?! As soon as you came in?” I was a little taken aback by the vehemence of her reaction, and I wasn’t sure I could put my finger on why she was upset. It was like watching a kitten morph into a panther. “Well…” 

“Oh. My. God. Why didn’t you tell me?!” 

I bristled, responding impulsively with “Because I didn’t want to?” Taking a moment to gather my thoughts, reposition my glasses, and reclaim my dignity, I let the silence grow. As I thought more about it, the primary reason I hadn’t said anything was, in fact, because I didn’t want to. But why didn’t I want to? “It’s… It’s just… It’s your office. I didn’t…” I didn't want to say anything because it was hers. And, oddly, lavender just... fit her so perfectly. Soothing, tiny and unobtrusive, but strikingly powerful.  Well, there’s no point in trying to explain now, because falling back into a spiraling vortex of sneezes will hardly make her feel better. “I’ll e-mail you about the budget this evening. I’m sort of doing consultant work here until I find, in my mother’s words, ‘a real job.’” 

“Okay. Sure, that sounds like a plan.” Leaving Viola's office was tinged with relief and regret in approximately equal measure - relief to breathe less problematic air, regret that I hadn’t successfully come up with a right thing to say. I redirected my thoughts back to work, firmly telling myself You can think about… all this… later. For now: make yourself useful. Balance that budget.

 

[sprinkles287]

Eeeek!!! Haven’t even read it yet - was so excited when I realized there was MORE ❤️❤️❤️

[EveP]

Great update! I can't wait for the next part. ❤️

[orange]

Thank you for this story ! I like to have both points of view

[sprinkles287]

Ooh ok so I finally have a moment to comment on the last bit. It’s so good! First, I LOVE that he barely had a chance to pull himself together and that the archives further aggravated his nose. And I like the sweet insight into what he thinks of Viola especially bc he does come off a bit haughty but internally he absolutely is not ❤️❤️❤️. This is my favorite thing I’ve read in a long time and my very favorite part of this story.

Thanks for posting more! I’ll be taking my time re-reading and laughing to myself until the next part.

[tma]

I ADORE this!! ❤❤

As proof... I responded. Lol! 

*pops back into the abyss and awaits more*

[RipleyToo]

You should make it so Medan catches a cold alongside with his allergies 😉 ?

[marzipan]

It's taken me forever to update, for which I apologize!

@sprinkles287, I'm so glad you're still enjoying it! I am liking writing from Medan's perspective even more than I thought I would. 

@EveP- thank you so much!

@orange, I'm really enjoying writing both perspectives and am glad folks suggested it!

@tma, thanks for popping out of the abyss to say you were enjoying the story!  

@RipleyToo- that's the post-coffee-date plan!  

Here's the next installment:

After preserving my dignity long enough to get out of Viola’s office, the pressure to find a secure locale for what was quickly building into an exquisite agony to repress became insistent. I was lightheaded and tempted to take a second to lean against the hallway wall to collect myself, but could already sense that I’d regret even a moment’s delay. 

Find somewhere private and quiet, right now. A glance down the hall of office doors - some closed, some partially open with the sound of workplace conversations issuing forth - was not promising. A brief vision of doors opening and inquisitive/disgusted onlookers peering out to see who was making the absolute racket in the hallway, should I let my guard down for a second, was enough to make me shudder. 

Right. No good options - but what’s the least worst option? Blinking my clouded, watery eyes to clear my line of vision, I bolted for the lift. At least I’d have a second between floors where I was guaranteed to be alone. In arguably the first stroke of good luck I’d had all day, the doors slid open as soon as I pressed the “up” button. Stumbling inside, I started to reach for my handkerchief but was thrown off balance by my body wrenching forward of its own accord in a series of guttural, throat-scraping sneezes. The combination of the elevator lurching as it started moving upward, snapping forward as my lungs and chest constricted, and my suddenly exponentially intensifying dizziness led me to throw the decorum of a handkerchief to the winds instead grab the elevator’s handrail for balance. 

 “Huh-tshuuh-tsh-heh, heh-tshuuuh-tsheew-tsheew - tsh’uuh, tsh’uuh, tsh…uuh - issh’ew-issh’ew-isssh’ew-issh’ew - oh, my God - htshuuuh! Huh-Esssh-kshuuh… hrreeshhuuh…” I was almost impressed in spite of myself by my body’s sheer tenacity. Given how little I was managing to breathe, the fact that I was still (mostly) upright felt like a bit of an athletic feat. 

If someone comes into this elevator right now, you’re going to be such a mess. As that thought flitted across the transom of my mind, the elevator chimed. Well, shit. “Httzht! Tshtt! Kxxch!” Swallowing the sneezes back again, crunching them as hard as possible against my elbow thrown up in haste as a fragile and insufficient barrier between my unseemliness and the outside world, hurt my throat, chest, and ribs alike. However, the three stifles I got in before the doors slid open were enough that I could feel the allergic tides receding slightly. 

My corresponding gratitude to the universe was short-lived, because my mother entered the elevator with someone I didn’t recognize. “What good timing! Dan, I want you to meet Javeah.” Good timing? Hardly. Javeah extended her hand to shake, a gesture of genuine good will, given that I must have looked like an absolute trash goblin. I tried to keep my responding handshake and smile as sincere as I could manage as I counted down the seconds until I could make my escape.

 “Javeah runs the communications department, and is working on expanding our messaging to underused platforms. I expect you’ll be working with each other quite a bit. Javeah, this is my son, Dan. He’s finished his MBA, but he’s working on his doctorate now. He’s in nonprofit management.”

I remembered Javeah now - I hadn’t met her before, but I had listened to a podcast she was interviewed on as part of my preparation for showing up today. “It’s good to meet you, Javeah. I look forward to c-c-... collaborating.” A slight stutter slipped in at the last moment, and whether it was my body preparing to violently reject all remaining lavender from my system or a usual vocal glitch was unclear, even to me. Don’t panic. You’ll be out of this elevator in less than a minute. 

My mother clicked her tongue at me in a way I found both annoying and oddly endearing, since I could remember her correcting me that way ever since I was a kindergartner trying to master scissor usage. Her subsequent aside to Javeah - “He always did stumble on c’s” - I appreciated less. On one hand, I knew she made a habit of pointing out when I stuttered to strangers because she didn’t want me to fall into thinking of stammering as something I should hide. On the other hand, I wished she’d keep her thoughts to herself. 

 Javeah’s eyes-wide, eyebrows-raised glance at me effectively communicated “What did she just say and how am I supposed to respond?!”, which I appreciated. Focusing all my attention on speaking as clearly and precisely as possible, I let my voice drip all sarcasm I could muster. “And Mum always did call attention to my disfluencies, so it’s marvelous to keep the tradition going.” If I could have done a Medusa and transmogrified Mum into stone with the sheer force of my stare, I would have. “Anyway, perhaps somewhat ironically, I’m finishing my degree in communications, so I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from your work.”

“And vice versa, I’m sure!” The gentle chime signaling that we were about to stop on another floor was a relief. I didn’t even know what rooms were on the sixteenth floor, but it didn’t matter  - I was getting off. I managed a hopefully-cordial nod to Javeah and a hopefully-scathing nod to my mother before making my escape.

A quick scan of my surroundings provided me with my best option: a vacant balcony and garden adjoining a lunch room. A garden wouldn’t usually be my top choice of venue. For one thing, it would be difficult to evade prying eyes should someone come up in the lift after me. Also, the word “garden” implied the possibility of plants - although I was relieved to find that, in this case, “garden” was a euphemism for three chairs and an abandoned trellis.

Sucking in the humid air, I let my allergies snap into high gear. “Krhshuuuh! Heeh, heh, heh…tshuuuh! Ehhh…Tshuuu! Tshuuuuh!” One reason I’d adopted stifling as my preferred modus operandi was that my natural, unrestrained sneeze was so disconcertingly all-consuming. I shivered, goosebumps springing up on my arms alongside the conspicuously pinkening rash. 

Each sneeze rippled through me in a full-bodied paroxysm, straining my chest and back as I shuddered with the effort. I let my knees buckle and half-fell into one of the exceedingly uncomfortable wicker chairs. I could barely keep my eyes open longer than a half-second, and in response, the blurry external world seemed to pulse in rhythm with my belabored sinuses. 

 Ugh. I could feel myself starting to sweat in the summer heat and humidity. Perfect. If you hadn’t already ruined this suit by sneezing all over it in the elevator, you’d really finish the job by getting it all clammy now. Well done. It was past time for damage control. I pulled out my phone to text my sister Hazel a request to let herself into my place and grab me a decent change of clothes. She often stopped by Mum’s office in the late morning or early afternoon anyway, had a key to my apartment, and was a reliable bet for checking her texts. 

Her response was indeed instantaneous: “…OK. Sounds like an interesting story there?”

I texted back a quick “thanks, I owe you one” and slid my phone back into my pocket before closing my eyes. Let yourself relax and wait for the Zyrtec to kick in. You can make up the lost work time with overtime later. 

Trying to relax, breathe, and not think about how damp my shirt sleeves felt was an uphill battle, particularly breathing was interspersed with increasingly congested sneezes that made me wince with both pain and disgust. The breathless buildups to each sneeze left me too faint to think, and now that I knew Hazel was on the way with a change of clothes, I just let my nose drip unrestrained. Particularly in the scorching heat, the exertion was so miserable I half-wished I’d pass out and get a bit of a break from the monotony.

I wish Viola would find me. The fleeting thought surprised even me. I definitely would never wish anyone would see me like this. No, I just feel so bloody terrible that I actually wouldn’t mind a tad bit of sympathy, which is quite pathetic.

The fresh air seemed to be doing me good. The fit began to taper off in intensity and escalate in wetness as the minutes ticked on. My handkerchief was already fairly useless, but I did my best to clean myself up. Blowing my nose usually helped me clear my head a bit, and I certainly seemed to need it. 

I stiffened when the lift chimed, prepared to pull myself together in case a stranger emerged, but fortunately it was just Hazel, who greeted me with a half-concerned, half-teasing “Slacking on the job already, huh?” She handed me a neatly folded pair of slacks and a short-sleeved light blue button-up. I mentally kicked myself for not specifying that I wanted something long-sleeved, given the rash creeping up both of my arms. It’ll be fun having people stare at that all day.

“Yes, I figured that since this gig is really a direct result of nepotism, it’d be fun to lie around all day and bask in my colleagues rightfully hating me.” Hazel snorted. It was fortunate that Hazel, Leo, and I shared a similar sense of humor.

“Mum told me to tell you she wants you back in her office ASAP. Something about the meeting about the Longfellow account or something?” 

I nodded and stood up, a little reluctantly. I still felt shaky and the most-recent fit had more or less sapped my reserves of focus, professionalism, and brainpower. However, Hazel didn’t seem to notice, which boded well for other people not noticing either. Just six more hours, and you can go home.

****

Six hours didn’t theoretically seem all that long a time at first, but the first two hours crept along at a snail’s pace - mostly because the majority of said hours were spent crossing figurative swords with my mother. 

“You’ll lead the financing meetings while Viola and I meet with the general contractors, and that’s final.” Mum tacking on “and that’s final” when we were already knee-deep into this argument was deeply provoking, not to mention the obvious overarching absurdity of pulling Viola off the project she’d so skillfully explained to me that very morning. 

“Is Viola even interested in urban planning? It was my understanding that she earned her degrees in cultural heritage studies and economics.”

She shrugged. “Interest doesn’t dictate duty, now, does it?”

“Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t think I’d need to tell you that it’s an asinine decision to pull an employee away from a project they’re interested in and good at in favor of putting them in a dead-end project outside their interests and their comfort zone. It’s bad for productivity, not to mention morale, and -” 

Mum interrupted by clicking her tongue at me again and saying “I don’t remember asking for your opinion. Did I?” - a rhetorical maneuver which heightened my determination to reign victorious in this verbal skirmish. 

“No, you didn’t ask my opinion, but my credentials in nonprofit management are significantly more relevant to this situation than yours in urban design are, so I thought you’d benefit from it.” 

She parried my comment by employing her failsafe defensive maneuver - suddenly pretending I didn’t exist. I considered the argument over and exited her office with all the wrathful composure I could muster, a power move slightly weakened by tripping on a bottle of iced coffee placed just outside the door.

My confusion and irritation over why the hell someone had left their unopened coffee immediately outside my mother’s door for anyone to kick over was immediately clarified and ameliorated by the adjacent eye drops and nasal spray. Viola. Obviously. I hesitated, wondering if I should go back to her office to thank her, but I suddenly felt unprecedentedly shy. Instead, I grabbed her gifts and bolted to my next meeting - a lengthy affair that made me grateful for the iced coffee’s caffeine to counteract the lethargy inflicted by Zyrtec.

However, after I’d gotten home to slightly more comfortable quarters to finish my workday, the time and expense Viola must have expended on me weighed on my mind. 

Why on earth would she have gone out of her way like that for me? As I made dinner, I toyed with various possibilities. Guilt because her lavender had unforeseen effects? A potential reason that I felt morally obligated to countermand immediately if it was even a glimmer of a thought for Viola. Professional obligation because I was so clearly unfit to perform my job in the aftermath of pollen’s machinations? Also a notion I felt obligated to dissuade her from. She was responsible for herself and herself alone, and if I was a defective employee, that was my problem.

 Purely because I was cycling through as many possibilities as I could generate, I also briefly entertained the thought that she actually liked me. It wasn’t even unfathomable that she found me attractive, although I made a habit of assuming no one was attracted to me in the slightest until definitively proven otherwise. 

Did I find Viola attractive? Obviously and objectively yes. If my unusually crisp recall of her appearance and demeanor - her dark curly hair, her vivid lipstick and winged eyeliner, her soft brown eyes and wide but nervous smile - wasn’t enough of an indicator, the slightly nauseous, lurching feeling that struck when I thought about facing her again at work gave me clear data. However, my own feelings meant absolutely nothing in terms of the broader conundrum of parsing out Viola’s motivations.  

Regardless, I concluded that I a) couldn’t ignore her gift, b) couldn’t in good conscience let her spend so much money on me, and c) was somewhat inexplicably discomfited by the thought of her feeling guilty. 

Thus, even though I was tempted to try my damndest to avoid Viola the following day, given that hayfever had hit me like a freight train and I felt vaguely like my head was stuffed with cotton batting from all the medication I’d taken to forestall a repeat performance of the prior less-than-productive workday, I headed to her office and rapped on the door before I lost my nerve. 

Viola answered the door, smiling and welcoming, and I was suddenly confident I couldn’t reply without stammering. Well, actions speak louder than words, anyway. I extended my repayment to her silently, but she didn’t immediately take it, instead asking  “Sorry - what’s that for?” 

“For the meds from yesterday.” 

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that, really.” My assumption that she felt guilty was proven accurate by her stepping back and glancing embarrassedly toward her carefully-kept pots (I’d already noticed the offending lavender had vanished from her shelves). 

“But I want to.” Slowly and deliberately, I inched forward, looking for a place I could discreetly leave the money if she wouldn’t accept it. 

“No, really. It’s nothing.” 

“It’s very literally not nothing. To be exact, it’s $40.” 

. “No, it’s… it’s my fault that you — it’s literally the least I could do. It’s not even an inconvenience.” Her fault? She might as well to be blame for single-handedly causing a recession or something.

“If it is indeed your fault that I’m allergic to every goddamn piece of flora and fauna on this earth, then your omnipotence is wasted in this desk job.” I set a paper weight on top of the paper bills, the clink of the glass weight effectively punctuating my sentence. 

 “I wasn’t saying that, I was just saying I should’ve known – “

Perhaps it was shabby of me to interrupt, but listening to her criticize herself for failing to foresee and accommodate the intricate nuances of my shit immune system was exceedingly galling. “Oh, well, congratulations then on your remarkable omniscience. I should have known, based on your admittedly impressive curriculum vitae, that perfect foreknowledge regarding even the tiniest, most insignificant minutiae was only a matter of time.”

Viola rolled her eyes at me, a display of annoyance that was, frankly, a relief. I’d take her feeling irritated with me over her beating herself up over something because of me any day. “Just… just take me out for coffee sometime and we’ll call it even.” 

She looked as shocked that she’d said that out loud as I was shocked to have heard it. I waited a moment to give her time to take it back if she wanted to, but she just looked at me a little apprehensively, like she was waiting for me to decide on something. I was doubly surprised by how pleased I was to forthrightly respond: “Okay. When?”

[brownsasha11]

11 hours ago, marzipan said:

It's taken me forever to update, for which I apologize!

@sprinkles287, I'm so glad you're still enjoying it! I am liking writing from Medan's perspective even more than I thought I would. 

@EveP- thank you so much!

@orange, I'm really enjoying writing both perspectives and am glad folks suggested it!

@tma, thanks for popping out of the abyss to say you were enjoying the story!  

@RipleyToo- that's the post-coffee-date plan!  

Here's the next installment:

After preserving my dignity long enough to get out of Viola’s office, the pressure to find a secure locale for what was quickly building into an exquisite agony to repress became insistent. I was lightheaded and tempted to take a second to lean against the hallway wall to collect myself, but could already sense that I’d regret even a moment’s delay. 

Find somewhere private and quiet, right now. A glance down the hall of office doors - some closed, some partially open with the sound of workplace conversations issuing forth - was not promising. A brief vision of doors opening and inquisitive/disgusted onlookers peering out to see who was making the absolute racket in the hallway, should I let my guard down for a second, was enough to make me shudder. 

Right. No good options - but what’s the least worst option? Blinking my clouded, watery eyes to clear my line of vision, I bolted for the lift. At least I’d have a second between floors where I was guaranteed to be alone. In arguably the first stroke of good luck I’d had all day, the doors slid open as soon as I pressed the “up” button. Stumbling inside, I started to reach for my handkerchief but was thrown off balance by my body wrenching forward of its own accord in a series of guttural, throat-scraping sneezes. The combination of the elevator lurching as it started moving upward, snapping forward as my lungs and chest constricted, and my suddenly exponentially intensifying dizziness led me to throw the decorum of a handkerchief to the winds instead grab the elevator’s handrail for balance. 

 “Huh-tshuuh-tsh-heh, heh-tshuuuh-tsheew-tsheew - tsh’uuh, tsh’uuh, tsh…uuh - issh’ew-issh’ew-isssh’ew-issh’ew - oh, my God - htshuuuh! Huh-Esssh-kshuuh… hrreeshhuuh…” I was almost impressed in spite of myself by my body’s sheer tenacity. Given how little I was managing to breathe, the fact that I was still (mostly) upright felt like a bit of an athletic feat. 

If someone comes into this elevator right now, you’re going to be such a mess. As that thought flitted across the transom of my mind, the elevator chimed. Well, shit. “Httzht! Tshtt! Kxxch!” Swallowing the sneezes back again, crunching them as hard as possible against my elbow thrown up in haste as a fragile and insufficient barrier between my unseemliness and the outside world, hurt my throat, chest, and ribs alike. However, the three stifles I got in before the doors slid open were enough that I could feel the allergic tides receding slightly. 

My corresponding gratitude to the universe was short-lived, because my mother entered the elevator with someone I didn’t recognize. “What good timing! Dan, I want you to meet Javeah.” Good timing? Hardly. Javeah extended her hand to shake, a gesture of genuine good will, given that I must have looked like an absolute trash goblin. I tried to keep my responding handshake and smile as sincere as I could manage as I counted down the seconds until I could make my escape.

 “Javeah runs the communications department, and is working on expanding our messaging to underused platforms. I expect you’ll be working with each other quite a bit. Javeah, this is my son, Dan. He’s finished his MBA, but he’s working on his doctorate now. He’s in nonprofit management.”

I remembered Javeah now - I hadn’t met her before, but I had listened to a podcast she was interviewed on as part of my preparation for showing up today. “It’s good to meet you, Javeah. I look forward to c-c-... collaborating.” A slight stutter slipped in at the last moment, and whether it was my body preparing to violently reject all remaining lavender from my system or a usual vocal glitch was unclear, even to me. Don’t panic. You’ll be out of this elevator in less than a minute. 

My mother clicked her tongue at me in a way I found both annoying and oddly endearing, since I could remember her correcting me that way ever since I was a kindergartner trying to master scissor usage. Her subsequent aside to Javeah - “He always did stumble on c’s” - I appreciated less. On one hand, I knew she made a habit of pointing out when I stuttered to strangers because she didn’t want me to fall into thinking of stammering as something I should hide. On the other hand, I wished she’d keep her thoughts to herself. 

 Javeah’s eyes-wide, eyebrows-raised glance at me effectively communicated “What did she just say and how am I supposed to respond?!”, which I appreciated. Focusing all my attention on speaking as clearly and precisely as possible, I let my voice drip all sarcasm I could muster. “And Mum always did call attention to my disfluencies, so it’s marvelous to keep the tradition going.” If I could have done a Medusa and transmogrified Mum into stone with the sheer force of my stare, I would have. “Anyway, perhaps somewhat ironically, I’m finishing my degree in communications, so I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from your work.”

“And vice versa, I’m sure!” The gentle chime signaling that we were about to stop on another floor was a relief. I didn’t even know what rooms were on the sixteenth floor, but it didn’t matter  - I was getting off. I managed a hopefully-cordial nod to Javeah and a hopefully-scathing nod to my mother before making my escape.

A quick scan of my surroundings provided me with my best option: a vacant balcony and garden adjoining a lunch room. A garden wouldn’t usually be my top choice of venue. For one thing, it would be difficult to evade prying eyes should someone come up in the lift after me. Also, the word “garden” implied the possibility of plants - although I was relieved to find that, in this case, “garden” was a euphemism for three chairs and an abandoned trellis.

Sucking in the humid air, I let my allergies snap into high gear. “Krhshuuuh! Heeh, heh, heh…tshuuuh! Ehhh…Tshuuu! Tshuuuuh!” One reason I’d adopted stifling as my preferred modus operandi was that my natural, unrestrained sneeze was so disconcertingly all-consuming. I shivered, goosebumps springing up on my arms alongside the conspicuously pinkening rash. 

Each sneeze rippled through me in a full-bodied paroxysm, straining my chest and back as I shuddered with the effort. I let my knees buckle and half-fell into one of the exceedingly uncomfortable wicker chairs. I could barely keep my eyes open longer than a half-second, and in response, the blurry external world seemed to pulse in rhythm with my belabored sinuses. 

 Ugh. I could feel myself starting to sweat in the summer heat and humidity. Perfect. If you hadn’t already ruined this suit by sneezing all over it in the elevator, you’d really finish the job by getting it all clammy now. Well done. It was past time for damage control. I pulled out my phone to text my sister Hazel a request to let herself into my place and grab me a decent change of clothes. She often stopped by Mum’s office in the late morning or early afternoon anyway, had a key to my apartment, and was a reliable bet for checking her texts. 

Her response was indeed instantaneous: “…OK. Sounds like an interesting story there?”

I texted back a quick “thanks, I owe you one” and slid my phone back into my pocket before closing my eyes. Let yourself relax and wait for the Zyrtec to kick in. You can make up the lost work time with overtime later. 

Trying to relax, breathe, and not think about how damp my shirt sleeves felt was an uphill battle, particularly breathing was interspersed with increasingly congested sneezes that made me wince with both pain and disgust. The breathless buildups to each sneeze left me too faint to think, and now that I knew Hazel was on the way with a change of clothes, I just let my nose drip unrestrained. Particularly in the scorching heat, the exertion was so miserable I half-wished I’d pass out and get a bit of a break from the monotony.

I wish Viola would find me. The fleeting thought surprised even me. I definitely would never wish anyone would see me like this. No, I just feel so bloody terrible that I actually wouldn’t mind a tad bit of sympathy, which is quite pathetic.

The fresh air seemed to be doing me good. The fit began to taper off in intensity and escalate in wetness as the minutes ticked on. My handkerchief was already fairly useless, but I did my best to clean myself up. Blowing my nose usually helped me clear my head a bit, and I certainly seemed to need it. 

I stiffened when the lift chimed, prepared to pull myself together in case a stranger emerged, but fortunately it was just Hazel, who greeted me with a half-concerned, half-teasing “Slacking on the job already, huh?” She handed me a neatly folded pair of slacks and a short-sleeved light blue button-up. I mentally kicked myself for not specifying that I wanted something long-sleeved, given the rash creeping up both of my arms. It’ll be fun having people stare at that all day.

“Yes, I figured that since this gig is really a direct result of nepotism, it’d be fun to lie around all day and bask in my colleagues rightfully hating me.” Hazel snorted. It was fortunate that Hazel, Leo, and I shared a similar sense of humor.

“Mum told me to tell you she wants you back in her office ASAP. Something about the meeting about the Longfellow account or something?” 

I nodded and stood up, a little reluctantly. I still felt shaky and the most-recent fit had more or less sapped my reserves of focus, professionalism, and brainpower. However, Hazel didn’t seem to notice, which boded well for other people not noticing either. Just six more hours, and you can go home.

****

Six hours didn’t theoretically seem all that long a time at first, but the first two hours crept along at a snail’s pace - mostly because the majority of said hours were spent crossing figurative swords with my mother. 

“You’ll lead the financing meetings while Viola and I meet with the general contractors, and that’s final.” Mum tacking on “and that’s final” when we were already knee-deep into this argument was deeply provoking, not to mention the obvious overarching absurdity of pulling Viola off the project she’d so skillfully explained to me that very morning. 

“Is Viola even interested in urban planning? It was my understanding that she earned her degrees in cultural heritage studies and economics.”

She shrugged. “Interest doesn’t dictate duty, now, does it?”

“Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t think I’d need to tell you that it’s an asinine decision to pull an employee away from a project they’re interested in and good at in favor of putting them in a dead-end project outside their interests and their comfort zone. It’s bad for productivity, not to mention morale, and -” 

Mum interrupted by clicking her tongue at me again and saying “I don’t remember asking for your opinion. Did I?” - a rhetorical maneuver which heightened my determination to reign victorious in this verbal skirmish. 

“No, you didn’t ask my opinion, but my credentials in nonprofit management are significantly more relevant to this situation than yours in urban design are, so I thought you’d benefit from it.” 

She parried my comment by employing her failsafe defensive maneuver - suddenly pretending I didn’t exist. I considered the argument over and exited her office with all the wrathful composure I could muster, a power move slightly weakened by tripping on a bottle of iced coffee placed just outside the door.

My confusion and irritation over why the hell someone had left their unopened coffee immediately outside my mother’s door for anyone to kick over was immediately clarified and ameliorated by the adjacent eye drops and nasal spray. Viola. Obviously. I hesitated, wondering if I should go back to her office to thank her, but I suddenly felt unprecedentedly shy. Instead, I grabbed her gifts and bolted to my next meeting - a lengthy affair that made me grateful for the iced coffee’s caffeine to counteract the lethargy inflicted by Zyrtec.

However, after I’d gotten home to slightly more comfortable quarters to finish my workday, the time and expense Viola must have expended on me weighed on my mind. 

Why on earth would she have gone out of her way like that for me? As I made dinner, I toyed with various possibilities. Guilt because her lavender had unforeseen effects? A potential reason that I felt morally obligated to countermand immediately if it was even a glimmer of a thought for Viola. Professional obligation because I was so clearly unfit to perform my job in the aftermath of pollen’s machinations? Also a notion I felt obligated to dissuade her from. She was responsible for herself and herself alone, and if I was a defective employee, that was my problem.

 Purely because I was cycling through as many possibilities as I could generate, I also briefly entertained the thought that she actually liked me. It wasn’t even unfathomable that she found me attractive, although I made a habit of assuming no one was attracted to me in the slightest until definitively proven otherwise. 

Did I find Viola attractive? Obviously and objectively yes. If my unusually crisp recall of her appearance and demeanor - her dark curly hair, her vivid lipstick and winged eyeliner, her soft brown eyes and wide but nervous smile - wasn’t enough of an indicator, the slightly nauseous, lurching feeling that struck when I thought about facing her again at work gave me clear data. However, my own feelings meant absolutely nothing in terms of the broader conundrum of parsing out Viola’s motivations.  

Regardless, I concluded that I a) couldn’t ignore her gift, b) couldn’t in good conscience let her spend so much money on me, and c) was somewhat inexplicably discomfited by the thought of her feeling guilty. 

Thus, even though I was tempted to try my damndest to avoid Viola the following day, given that hayfever had hit me like a freight train and I felt vaguely like my head was stuffed with cotton batting from all the medication I’d taken to forestall a repeat performance of the prior less-than-productive workday, I headed to her office and rapped on the door before I lost my nerve. 

Viola answered the door, smiling and welcoming, and I was suddenly confident I couldn’t reply without stammering. Well, actions speak louder than words, anyway. I extended my repayment to her silently, but she didn’t immediately take it, instead asking  “Sorry - what’s that for?” 

“For the meds from yesterday.” 

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that, really.” My assumption that she felt guilty was proven accurate by her stepping back and glancing embarrassedly toward her carefully-kept pots (I’d already noticed the offending lavender had vanished from her shelves). 

“But I want to.” Slowly and deliberately, I inched forward, looking for a place I could discreetly leave the money if she wouldn’t accept it. 

“No, really. It’s nothing.” 

“It’s very literally not nothing. To be exact, it’s $40.” 

. “No, it’s… it’s my fault that you — it’s literally the least I could do. It’s not even an inconvenience.” Her fault? She might as well to be blame for single-handedly causing a recession or something.

“If it is indeed your fault that I’m allergic to every goddamn piece of flora and fauna on this earth, then your omnipotence is wasted in this desk job.” I set a paper weight on top of the paper bills, the clink of the glass weight effectively punctuating my sentence. 

 “I wasn’t saying that, I was just saying I should’ve known – “

Perhaps it was shabby of me to interrupt, but listening to her criticize herself for failing to foresee and accommodate the intricate nuances of my shit immune system was exceedingly galling. “Oh, well, congratulations then on your remarkable omniscience. I should have known, based on your admittedly impressive curriculum vitae, that perfect foreknowledge regarding even the tiniest, most insignificant minutiae was only a matter of time.”

Viola rolled her eyes at me, a display of annoyance that was, frankly, a relief. I’d take her feeling irritated with me over her beating herself up over something because of me any day. “Just… just take me out for coffee sometime and we’ll call it even.” 

She looked as shocked that she’d said that out loud as I was shocked to have heard it. I waited a moment to give her time to take it back if she wanted to, but she just looked at me a little apprehensively, like she was waiting for me to decide on something. I was doubly surprised by how pleased I was to forthrightly respond: “Okay. When?”

What a pleasant surprise. Thanks for the update @marzipan. The story is great thus far. I am sure I speak for everyone when I say writing such a stellar story requires care and precision and that we appreciate the efforts

[orange]

Thank you, I have a smile reading this sequel that makes you want to have more

[starpollen]

Lovely 🥰 

[EveP]

I love reading the story from Medan's perspective. Lovely update!

[tma]

Loving this!! 

 

The dual perspectives and the dialogue (and internal monologues)  LOVE!!  Super cute 😍❤❤

[RipleyToo]

Loving this so much! Very interested to see what comes next!

[sprinkles287]

Loving this so much. Medan is the best. I loved the bit you threw in about assuming no one is attracted to him until proven otherwise. I like seeing him come completely undone too - that elevator scene was 🔥 so fun 🤩 

[marzipan]

After a loooong delay... another installment, from Viola's perspective this time. Finally, they're meeting outside of work! There's a tiny mention of a jerk ex-boyfriend in this one, just as a teeny warning. 

Thank you all for the really nice comments!  😊

I blurted out “Saturday?” as a time for coffee, mostly to give me enough time to worry and prepare but not so much time that I’d completely psych myself out. So, I had four days to occasionally have a panicky vision of sitting across a table from Medan, which seemed like enough time to get used to the idea that 1) I was nursing a blooming crush on my supervisor’s son, 2) He was disconcertingly attractive and unnervingly intelligent, and 3) His allergies pressed my buttons with an ease and aplomb never before witnessed by me. 

Perhaps fortunately, I didn’t see Medan all that much before Saturday. He seemed to always be already at work when I arrived, and was always still in his office at 5:00 when I left. I’d occasionally get a glimpse of him bending over someone’s laptop, peering over their shoulder to troubleshoot something for them. I noticed him once in a conference room, listening to a colleague I’d only met once or twice before give a presentation. He was perfectly still, focused on the speaker with an intensity I would have found distinctly unnerving. 

Otherwise, though, I just waited for Saturday and fretted about whether this wasn’t even a date and I’d just misread the situation entirely. Maybe he wants to ask me questions about grant funding and client proposals. Maybe he wants to get a lay of the land from someone he knew from high school who’s already in the job. Maybe he wants advice about how to handle working in a family business. Maybe… maybe he just took pity on me since I was such a frazzled mess. 

Given the ambiguity, I spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear on Saturday morning. I wanted to wear something generally date-appropriate but that didn’t scream “date” in case this wasn’t, in fact, a date. I settled on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a casual orange crop top. Then, worrying that that might be too much, I paired it with a denim jacket to make the hint of skin showing a tad more discreet. Staring at myself with a critical eye, I added a pair of hoop earrings, pulled my hair up into a loose bun, and reapplied vividly crimson lipstick in a decidedly “donning my armor” mindset. No matter what this whole thing actually turns out to be, I’ll be ready. 

Arriving at the coffee shop, I was unsurprised to see him already outside and waiting. He seemed like an early bird. It was startling to see him look so uncharacteristically relaxed. His dark red button-up shirt and neatly pressed slacks still made him look considerably more formal than the guys inside in T-shirts and baseball caps, but, maybe particularly since his glasses were in his front pocket, he looked different than he usually did at work - a little softer. 

My nerves as I approached verged on the unbearable. Yet, I mustered a flustered greeting, and his slight responding smile as he stood up to get the door for me was so reassuringly genuine that I felt myself relax. The dark circles under his eyes suggested that he’d been burning the midnight oil since starting work for Elisa, but I was quite sure he wouldn’t welcome me asking about it. 

Medan waved me inside with a courteous “after you,” letting me walk ahead of him into the bustling coffee shop. The ambient sound was overwhelming after the stillness outside. 

“Do you still like to have someone else order for you?” It took me a second to realize what he was talking about; in high school, I was such a nervous wreck that I was too anxious about talking to a stranger to even order a coffee without being prohibitively nervous. My friend Nia had taken pity on me and ordered for me once, and then it just became a habit among my friends. I can’t believe Medan remembers that. 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” Embarrassment aside, I was weirdly touched that he’d asked, almost so much so that I briefly considered just being honest and saying yes. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he remembered something like that - I knew from being in high school with him that his recall was exceptionally good, as evidenced by my many memories of him absolutely demolishing classmates in pop oral quizzes. Still, thinking that I had been at all noteworthy enough that he committed such a trivial fact about me to memory made me blush.  

He shrugged in response, keeping his eyes carefully focused on the menu above the counter. “I know I don’t have to, but I want to if you’d like me to.” He paused, probably to let me respond, but I couldn’t make up my mind about what to say, so I let the silence drag until he asked me a different question. “Anyway, would you rather sit inside or outside?” 

Another seemingly simple question, but one that I could angst over for ages. I’d virtually always rather sit outside  - for all the virtues of being quieter, more secluded, and it being a gorgeously sunny day - but I instinctually guessed that Medan would prefer being inside. Something about his crisply pressed clothes, perfectly combed hair, and perfect posture  just made me think he was most comfortable inside - probably ideally in a conference room, standing behind a lectern and schooling people on budgetary analysis. Also, his casual mention of being allergic to virtually every species of flora and fauna stuck with me - and while I couldn’t deny that I liked that attribute… very much, I didn’t want him to be itchy and miserable. I wanted to say whatever would make him most comfortable, but was suddenly sure he could read me like a book and tell if I was half-truthing about my own preferences.  

That feeling was verified when he tilted his head at me and asked, “Or would you rather I picked?” I nodded, feeling increasingly rattled by his insight. “Let’s sit outside, then.” He pointed to the menu. “What would you like?” 

I wondered if my capacity for speech would ever fully return as I scanned the menu, looking for something reasonably priced. Since he was paying, I didn’t want to put a dent in his pocketbook, and since I still wasn’t sure if this was a date, I wanted to strike the appropriate tone. “Um… could I have an iced vanilla latte and the mushroom quiche, if that’s okay?” 

Medan’s attention immediately darted down from the menu to my face with an intensity that almost made me jump. “Of course that’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?” 

I impulsively hedged with a smile, not wanting to get into the details, since my nervous tic of asking permission stemmed from the figurative Ghost of Boyfriend Past. Regardless of whether this was an actual date, bringing up a past boyfriend would be a conversation killer. “Would you mind ordering? I’ll get us a table outside.” 

Although he raised his eyebrows slightly to let me know that he noticed my sidestep of his question, he accepted it, much to my relief. “Sure. I’ll meet you outside.”   

Once on the coffee shop’s patio, I picked the table farthest from the door so I could pull myself together and give myself a wee bit of a pep talk. Just be yourself… but calmer, more articulate, and a little less hot and bothered. So yourself… just slightly better. However, there wasn’t enough time in the world for me to present a fully-functional, calm self before Medan reappeared. He appeared perfectly at ease and in command of the situation, despite having noticeably flinched against a sneeze as soon as he opened the coffee shop door and stepped out into the bright light. Photic. Of course he was.

“So, Viola. How have you been?” His voice was a little congested, which left my addled brain two steps behind him. “Oh, um… things are good. You already know that things at work are… you know… busy.”

“Mum overworks you.” He said it as a statement, not a question, but I was still inclined to prevaricate. “No, I mean, I don’t know. She doesn’t mean to. I think I just have a lot of work to get up to speed on everything, since she works in so many different arenas -” 

I probably would have continued rambling had Medan not shook his head, firmly disagreeing and politely interjecting. “Forgive me for being contradictory, but it is obvious you’re overqualified for the job, so much so that I wonder why you’ve stayed with it.”

“I don’t think it’s obvious - “

“Well, I do. Javeah does. Min does, Luther does, Catherine does, Bryan does - need I continue?” 

Flustered again, I shook my head, so he continued in a no-nonsense, authoritative tone that brooked no argument: “Then, suffice it to say that your talents far exceed the opportunities your position provides, and that is not simply my opinion, but a well-substantiated consensus.” 

The compliment was delivered with piercing eye contact that made me squirm. “I… um… well, thank you. I guess I just think I’m pretty lucky to have a job with benefits, that pays decently, and is in a location I like. And, of course, I have incredibly gifted colleagues.” I couldn’t figure out if he interpreted my subtle comment as the flirtation I 100% fully intended it to be, or if I was being too discreet. So, in embarrassment, I quickly changed the subject. “Why did you come to work for your mother?”

His shrug in return was deliberately noncommittal. “Hard to say, but it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time.” The sarcastic edge to his voice cautioned me that perhaps this was a line of questioning I shouldn’t pursue. I was curious, but didn’t want to press him. “Well… what in particular are you working on? You’re technically in Finance and Operations, right?” 

He hesitated and started to speak, but then thought better of it and cut himself off. “I’m not really at liberty to divulge, I’m afraid, given orders from the boss.” He rolled his eyes while reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief - a gesture that made my stomach lurch in poorly-suppressed hopeful anticipation. “I know it sounds absurdly melodramatic, but… well, you know. What I can say is that I’m trying to bring underperforming workers up to speed so we can feasibly keep them on. If improvements aren’t measurable within the month, I suspect Mum primarily wants me to do the work of actual firing, given her dislike for getting her hands dirty.” 

Imagining Medan firing someone was a thought-provoking exercise. Given what I’d imagined of him based on past experience, I would have guessed he’d be coolly businesslike, detached from any broader context than the workplace, quietly self-assured that he was making the wise and practical financial choice. Out of sight, out of mind, no guilt, no second-guessing: just ruthless efficiency. But, sitting across from him now, I couldn’t discern what he felt about his mother asking him to take on that task. His expression was so perfectly blank that I suspected the lack of emotion was carefully deliberate. 

He suddenly froze in a manner reminiscent of the first moments in his mother’s office - like he’d just stepped out of the moment as completely as if he’d dropped the curtain on a theatrical scene - but, after a shaky inhalation that had me on tenterhooks, he picked up where he left off. “Or, perhaps I’m being unfair. Anyway, why don’t you tell me about your work? I read the first two chapters of your MA thesis last night -”

“What?!” Oh, God, not even my best friend read that thesis. Did he think it was boring? Arcane? Too try-hard? Pretentious? Incompetent? Inadequate?

Further pursuit of this line of conversation was interrupted by our server. Having been a waitress myself in college, I tend to think that you can tell approximately 70% of what you need to know about a person by the way they treat waitstaff, so I was keyed into Medan’s response. Thus, I was fortunate to be privy to him turning away from her, his mouth dropping open slightly, and then crunching in on himself and smothering a sneeze into his pristine handkerchief. He definitely brought a fresh one to the coffee shop, just in case. 

 He didn’t bother opening his eyes after the first sneeze, instead keeping his hand near his face and sucking in uncomfortably stuttering inhalations. The sneeze appeared to be stuck, and each breath inward seemed to just make the itch increasingly unbearable. The server and I both blessed him, but he was too incapacitated to respond, even in a nonverbal way - which I’m afraid I found startlingly hot.

After thanking the server and making customary pleasantries, both of us determinedly giving Medan his privacy, I was relieved when she walked back inside. I’d been watching Medan out of the corner of my eye, trembling with the effort of keeping the fit somewhat under wraps. I suspect he was equally relieved to take a deep breath instead of the shallow puffs of air he’d been taking out of necessity, but apparently with a keen sense of resentment. “Hhh–ERSHUUH! TshUUH! Huh-ESHuh! Hnnnk!” Following the last stifle, he let out a very soft but seemingly irrepressible moan, a sound that made my stomach drop with lust and my palms tingle. Given that I felt flushed with warmth heating me from the inside out, my tentative “...bless you” felt deeply inadequate, particularly since he waved it off with a casual dismissal that suggested this particular episode was nothing, quickly steering the conversation back to my thesis.

I usually get self-conscious when I’m talking about myself, but Medan’s interest in how I came to my Master’s project was so clearly genuine - and he was as quick to remark upon ideas he admired as ideas he didn’t understand or quibbled with. When I started to get embarrassed about how long I’d been rattling on about landmark designation policy, it was both reassuring and a little surreal to look across the table to Medan nodding attentively, fully relaxed, his head propped up against his hand. His wholehearted focus made me feel shy.

He did occasionally hold up a finger to silently ask me to pause before his eyes fluttered shut and he muffled a sneeze into his handkerchief. Fortunately for him, they were usually manageable singles, with an occasional triple thrown in. After the fourth time he stopped me, he muttered, “Sorry to interrupt you. Damn ragweed.” 

“Please don’t apologize! There’s no need.”  I could see why he’d stopped me when he knew he was about to sneeze. His kind of listening wasn’t the sort you could manage when you were distracted by allergies’ rising demands, and I got the sense that he wouldn’t settle for anything less than undivided attention. 

Returning his curiosity by nerding out over his dissertation topic (regenerative economies and microloans) came so easily that, when he set down his empty coffee mug, I was startled to realize an hour and a half had sped past. Where had the time gone?

When Medan then leaned forward slightly, letting the pause in conversation extend from one second to five, then ten, I resisted the impulse to slide my hands forward so our knuckles would brush, acutely conscious of how precarious this conversation, this moment, might be. No wrong moves, Vi…

God, his pause was so difficult to interpret. His eye contact was sufficiently intense that I felt he was analyzing me like an art historian might scrutinize a Rembrandt portrait. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a certain inquisitive tilt to his head that made me think he was retracing well-worn mental ground - and that made me nervous. However, when he spoke, his voice was steady, articulation perfect: “I have a question I wanted to ask you, Viola, just for clarification purposes. Is this a date?”