Revisions and Decisions

[Privatedancer]

Gahhh!  I love this and I love how unique his character is and the fact that he was able to figure out her attraction to his “condition”.  I really look forward to more!

[starpollen]

❤️ 

[thesneezyowl]

Yaaaaaaas!!!!! His fits are some of my faves. 

[RipleyToo]

Omg!! This was sooo damn cute!! I hope there is more soon! Medan being told his stifling will just hurt him more was just so cute! The connection that these 2 gave is just so cute!! 

[sprinkles287]

I finally gathered myself enough to respond. I’m in love with Medan. Please continue when you are inspired. I’m greedy and will devour anything you care to share with us.

[orange]

🧡 thank you !!

[Tumble]

🥰this is perfect sick day reading. 

[RipleyToo]

I can’t wait for more!! I’ve been checking this thread almost everyday! ❤️ 

[sprinkles287]

This is still one of my favorites. I love coming back and re-reading

[RipleyToo]

2 hours ago, sprinkles287 said:

This is still one of my favorites. I love coming back and re-reading

Same here! I hope there will be more soon!

[Fiadh]

I love these characters so much! This story is so well written! Would be absolutely thrilled to read more!!!

[marzipan]

Finally back with more - this time, with Medan's perspective on their coffee date. Thank you all so much for your replies - I really enjoy knowing that people are enjoying my writing! I hope the wait was worth it (and I hope I'll be able to update a little more speedily next time!) 

I wish I could say I was wholly successful in keeping my attention fully dedicated to my work in the days before coffee with Viola on Saturday. However, if I made such a claim, I’d be lying. Fortunately, though, the few intervening days between setting the day and the actual day gave me time to diligently begin a stringent allergy medication regimen. If I was going to have the opportunity to talk with Viola outside of the workplace, I wanted to spend as much as possible of the time involved listening, as opposed to concentrating on the tiny but intrusive grains of pollen rattling against my chronically oversensitive sinuses. 

I arrived at the coffee shop twenty early, in part to test the pollen-count-related waters, and in part to ensure that I was there when Viola arrived. The sunshine on my skin felt wonderful after forty-eight hours of barely straying from my air-conditioned office. It was also a pleasant (and slightly surprising) relief that I wasn’t instantly a congested, sodden mess of a human being as soon as I emerged from the filtered air of an office building into the great outdoors. The slight, gritty prickle in my eyes was irritating, but after I took off my glasses and leaned back against the warm stone wall of the coffee shop and closed my eyes, it lessened in intensity from being mildly annoying to barely noticeable.

Of course, now that I wasn’t so focused on work, I could tell that my head felt a bit fuzzy from all the medication, but even that wasn’t too galling. Higher-order tasks like mental statistical mathematics are hardly likely to arise in the context of a chat over a coffee table. Still, being cognizant that I wasn’t at peak mental acuity made me feel a tad vulnerable. I hadn’t been at all nervous about meeting Viola for coffee before, but I suddenly felt the first stirrings of something approaching apprehension. I never enjoyed the experience of inadequacy, and the potential for being found deficient was discomfiting.

It was easy to mentally shelve that concern, though, when I saw Viola walking up from the parking lot. As soon as we made eye contact and she ducked her head with a nervous half-smile to avoid meeting my gaze, I knew she was far more anxious than I was. Correspondingly, I swallowed back my initial impulse to tell her she looked beautiful - which she did. Orange was a gorgeous color on her, and only well-cultivated self-discipline kept me from allowing my eyes to linger over the soft curve of her waist exposed by her crop top. I didn’t know if she was thinking of this meeting over coffee as a potentially date-like situation, and I didn’t want to inadvertently put her in an awkward situation if that thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. 

I’ve never been much good at being a comforting presence. People come to me when they have vaguely unpleasant tasks that they want help accomplishing, not when they want someone to make them feel better. I wasn’t sure how to be reassuring, and I strongly suspected my skills in that realm could use further honing and development.

Come on now. You have a brain, and one that may even be considered reasonably adept. You can figure out how to make Viola comfortable. Reviewing my archive of memories of high-school-age Viola, I recalled that Viola’s friends used to order for her when they studied at shops like this one. That’s not much to go on… but it’s something. I waited for a moment and took a quick deep breath to be sure I could speak smoothly, without the blunt abruptness sometimes enhanced by my stutter. “...do you still like to have someone else order for you?” She started, pivoting to look at me in surprise and with more than a little apparent embarrassment. Badly done, Medan. Back to the drawing board for ways to put her at ease.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” She made it sound like asking me to order would have been an enormous imposition, which, when spoken to someone who’d interrupted her workday on more than one occasion with actual impositions, was quite the irony.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to if you’d like me to.” I was briefly tempted to add that I had a visceral memory of her being the only person I’d look at during any in-class presentation in high school because she was the only person I could count on to not look visibly annoyed by having to wait on my stutter, so she should consider this particular, very minor accommodation on my part to be  long-overdue payback. But that seemed too vulnerable to admit, and I mostly wanted to let her speak, anyway. When she didn’t say anything, instead reaching for her hair to tug on it in a nervous gesture I was growing a bit familiar with, I broke the silence myself. “Anyway, where would you like to sit?”

She opened her mouth like she was about to reply, but then took a sharp breath and stopped herself. However, I noticed that she looked for a split-second at the door before her eyes flitted back to my face, so I felt able to make a general guess at her preference, and it really didn’t matter to me one way or the other. “Or would you rather I picked?” Her look of relief when I just asked was palpable. “Let’s sit outside, then.” The sense of accomplishment that washed over me when she smiled in response and her shoulders relaxed was tremendously satisfying. 

Well, I definitely can’t decide what she wants to eat without her input. I pointed to the menu. “What would you like?” 

“Um… could I have an iced vanilla latte and the mushroom quiche, if that’s okay?” Her tone was tentative again. She sounded… like she expected me to say no? What the hell had I said or done to make her think that I’d say no? The way she was standing - slightly curled in on herself, arms crossed - prompted me to remember the way she’d responded when she gave me the allergy meds in her office and I didn’t immediately respond. She’d acted like she thought I might be angry or offended, and she seemed to think the same now. 

The concern infusing my reply translated into a harsh sharpness that I instantly regretted.  “Of course that’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?” 

She laughed, shaking off my question. “Would you mind ordering? I’ll get us a table outside.”

 In one way, I was pleased that she’d asked something of me, but I also wasn’t thrilled by the implications of her avoiding my question. If I ever meet whoever made Viola expect anger, I hope I get the chance to eviscerate them. Personally and professionally. Ideally in public. 

After ordering and walking outside to where Viola was waiting for me, I stiffened against a quick sneeze as I stepped into the bright light, making sure to tense my hands so I wouldn’t spill our coffee. I was dubious, however, that the lingering prickle in my sinuses was solely connected to my oversensitive reflexes. All of those antihistamines and nasal sprays better have not been for nothing…

Setting the coffees down, I was pleased to note that Viola looked a little more comfortable now that we were outside. Starting with as neutral a question as I could manage - to hopefully keep her that way - I tried, “So, Viola. How have you been?” 

She looked like she wasn’t sure how to answer. “Oh, um… things are good. You already know that things at work are… you know… busy.”

“Mum overworks you.” I already knew that. If Mum had Viola involved in any more projects, she’d be working 24-hour-days and still getting paid for eight. 

Viola was too kind to let me say something that was even glancingly critical of my mother, so she instantly started with gentle excuses and self-criticism, which struck me as unacceptable. Put the blame where the blame belongs. “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.”

Flustered, Viola started to reply, “I don’t think it’s obvious - “

I've never been inclined to be patient with patent absurdities, so I interrupted. “Well, I do. Javeah does. Min does, Luther does, Catherine does, Bryan does - need I continue? 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.” 

Based on her genuine but abashed grin, it appeared that Viola was both grateful for and embarrassed by the compliment. I wondered if she didn’t receive compliments often; my mother certainly couldn’t be counted on to dole them out more regularly than once a decade or so. “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.” She met my eye for the first time with a slight smile so sweet that I felt my mind temporarily short-circuit. 

“Why did you come to work for your mother?”

Several sarcastic answers flitted through my mind: Because I just love drawn-out arguments conducted purely in fluent passive aggressive subtext? Because the workplaces I crave are the ones that involve no sleep, excessive caffeine, and only a passing acquaintance with the niceties of work/life balance? Because there’s such power to be had in being both professionally indispensable and personally annoying as hell?  I genuinely couldn’t come up with what a sincere answer might look like. “Because she thought I was the best person for the job and so did I” was more or less true, but it sounded more self-aggrandizing than I intended.  “Hard to say, but it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time.” 

“Well… what in particular are you working on? You’re technically in Finance and Operations, right?” 

Answering Viola’s question was a bit of a challenge - both in terms of speaking at all and in terms of the code of strict privacy my mother operated under. “I’m not really at liberty to divulge, I’m afraid, given orders from the boss.” Oh… and there it is. Allergies… we meet again, and at yet another inopportune and highly inconvenient moment. Pressing my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth suppressed the immediate urge, which at least gave me some indication that the allergy meds were working. Without them, I’d be helplessly lost to an allergy attack by now. 

I reached casually for my handkerchief while continuing to try to answer, hoping I wouldn’t end up needing it. Personal, private allergic discomfort was comparatively easy to manage, but the moment a reaction became externally noticeable - particularly in a dreadfully messy way - I often found myself longing for immediate immersion into a barren wasteland devoid of plants, animals, and spectators.

When I prompted Viola to take control of the conversation by asking her about her Master’s thesis, she started in apparent shock that I’d taken an interest in her work. “What?!” Truly, it seemed to me like she should have been more shocked if I hadn’t started her thesis. I was more or less shocked that I hadn’t been able to finish it yet - my work schedule had forbidden me from giving it the time it deserved. I hoped Viola would get to talking about her work and correspondingly become a little more self-assured in the conversation; the glimpses of confidence I had, thus far, been privy to assured me that she was far more brilliant than she knew. 

When the server came out with our plates, Viola turned to greet her with the gentle kindness I’d come to fully expect.  I, on the other hand, took advantage of her brief moment of distraction to smother a disconcertingly insistent sneeze into my handkerchief. My momentary hope that the one sneeze would take care of the pollen was nagging at my sinuses was quickly expunged. Although the medications were working well enough that the next sneeze wasn’t already upon me, it was easy to feel that the instinct to sneeze was simply marshaling its forces in preparation for the next onslaught.

Listening vaguely to Viola complimenting the server on her nail polish before asking her about how her day was going, I was impressed by Viola’s reflexive desire to put everyone at ease. In comparison, I felt particularly acutely impolite, given that I wasn’t able to even make so much as eye contact at the present moment. I couldn’t help it - if I was going to not interrupt their quiet conversation with an allergic intrusion, it was going to take my full and undisturbed attention. Oh, God, I needed to sneeze - preferably repeatedly, preferably unrestrained, and preferably right the fuck now. 

I bit the inside of my bottom lip to suppress the simmering, increasingly desperate urge to rid myself of the meddlesome pollen. In fact, I bit slightly too hard - my lips were trembling, which made it difficult to judge how much pressure was too much pressure. 

To distract myself from the fluttering, burning  prickle making its way from the bridge of my nose to its very tip, I tried to focus on what Viola was saying. The server was a soft-spoken young person named Sofia. Somewhat miraculously, in the course of approximately two minutes of conversation (which, regardless, seemed to last an eternity), Viola learned that Sofia was a high school student who hoped to study archaeology in college, that she’d derived that interest from her grandmother who was an amateur fossil collector, and that she had a little brother who loved dinosaurs and was as excited for her college courses as she was. 

I’d never had particular skill in the conversational department - and not solely for stammering reasons. Getting to know people was, put quite simply, hard, in a world of limited time in which to gain skills, I’d essentially decided that I’d spend my energies elsewhere. Viola, however, made it look effortless. 

If I hadn’t been reaching the point of allergic repression that essentially consists of trying to avoid audibly gasping for air like a floundering fish with every violently hitching breath, I wouldn’t have minded listening for hours. In fact, witnessing Viola excelling in a realm in which I was, to be perfectly frank, decidedly subpar was something of an intellectual turn-on. However, as it was, it was a relief when Sofia turned to go.

 A single, sharp gulp of air escalated the allergic burn to an all-consuming, unavoidable need. Trying to delay a moment longer would have been torturous. “Hhh–ERSHUUH! TshUUH! Huh-ESHuh! Hnnnk!” The final stifle was a mistake - I briefly wondered if I’d given myself a nosebleed, but was relieved to tentatively lower the handkerchief and discover that, at least in that department, all was well. 

The way Viola said “bless you” sounded more like a question than a statement. I suppose we were both wondering if I was actually done, or if that set was a mere opener. Fortunately, my immune system seemed disposed to be forgiving, and conversation could carry on as though I hadn’t just been quivering with hitching breaths and convulsive sneezes.

Listening to Viola talk more about her work was fascinating. I was familiar with the majority of the bureaucratic intricacies her thesis ran up against (which struck me as fairly forbidding), but was less conversant in its methods and theories. Because it was so interesting, ignoring the omnipresent prickling teasing against my nostrils was less of a challenge. When the tickle became too annoying to manage, a quick but hard rub with a knuckle would do the trick - at least long enough for Viola to finish her sentence, so I could nonverbally communicate that I needed her to wait a moment at a less obtrusive point in her explanation.

Although I was annoyed that my diligent medication routine hadn’t had its full desired results, I had to grudgingly acknowledge that this could have been a whole lot worse. The constant, dull, nagging urge to sneeze was a bit uncomfortable (particularly when I wondered vaguely if my spasmodically trembling nostrils were an accursed shade of pink, as they tended to become in these compromising situations), but nothing compared to the high-octane fit that would have ripped through my lungs and chest if I hadn’t tried to be attentive. Still, after a few allergic interruptions, I apologized, as being distracted from her passionate, enthusiastic explanations felt like an unforgivable offense. “Sorry to interrupt you. Damn ragweed.” 

She leaned forward, her expression transparently sincere. “Please don’t apologize! There’s no need.”

I wasn’t expecting to feel so genuinely touched by her reassurance, but the pressing weight of a lump in my throat wasn’t attributable to brewing congestion. I don’t know if she could tell from my face that I was struggling to respond, but she seamlessly switched topics to ask me about my dissertation - a topic where I was on much firmer ground. 

Talking about my work with Viola was - dare I say - fun (an adjective I don’t often casually apply to graduate research). I don’t think she was at all familiar with my subject, but she was curious and intuitive. When she excitedly asked me if I could sketch a diagram on a paper napkin to show her what I meant when I referred to economic theories of “edge abundance,” her eyes sparkling, I had to sit in silence and press my lips together for a moment to gather myself before responding. I still wasn’t sure if this was a date… but I was certain that I wholeheartedly wanted it to be one. 

Alright, then. There’s only one way to find out. Keeping my eyes locked on hers to assess her reaction, I paused for a moment, telling myself that there was no hurry. Just let the moment be. Viola fidgeted nervously at first, which made me want to try to speak before I knew if I could with any degree of fluency - but then she tilted her head at me, a little half-smile glimmering in her eyes. That single moment verged boldly on the perfect. Perhaps she was also weighing a similar question? Perhaps she, too, had come to a similar conclusion? 

 Right. Whether she was thinking in those directions or not, forthrightness was the only way to cut through this potential mire of miscommunications, wishful thinking, and judgment probably blurred by antihistamines. “I have a question I wanted to ask you, Viola, just for clarification purposes. Is this a date?”

[RipleyToo]

Aaahhh I LOVE Medan so much!! However, I must ask, is Medan still suffering from his cold along with his allergies? 
 

I can’t wait for more! I’ve been so patiently waiting for this!!

[EveP]

I'm so happy that my day got to begin with Viola and Medan. Thank you so much @marzipan. Now I'm dying to know what Viola answers and where they go from here. <3

[marzipan]

3 hours ago, RipleyToo said:

Aaahhh I LOVE Medan so much!! However, I must ask, is Medan still suffering from his cold along with his allergies? 
 

I can’t wait for more! I’ve been so patiently waiting for this!!

This most recent bit is the precursor to his cold - it is Medan's perspective on an earlier part of the story I posted a few months ago that was narrated from Viola's perspective. So... it is coming! 😅 I should have been more clear on the chronology! 

I've already started the next part from his perspective that brings the story to his cold, though, so hopefully you won't have to be patient too long 😉

[EveP]

23 hours ago, marzipan said:

This most recent bit is the precursor to his cold - it is Medan's perspective on an earlier part of the story I posted a few months ago that was narrated from Viola's perspective. So... it is coming! 😅 I should have been more clear on the chronology! 

I've already started the next part from his perspective that brings the story to his cold, though, so hopefully you won't have to be patient too long 😉

Oh, I forgot about that. I had to go back and re-read, so now I know the answer. So you're writing all the following parts from the other person's perspective? I love it! Your writing inspires me to write better.

[marzipan]

13 hours ago, EveP said:

Oh, I forgot about that. I had to go back and re-read, so now I know the answer. So you're writing all the following parts from the other person's perspective? I love it! Your writing inspires me to write better.

I should have been more clear about the chronology - it is way confusing as it stands now! (That's in part why I think I'll finish up Medan's perspective on events already covered by Viola's narration earlier, and then switch to a different thread - it is kind of a puzzle at the moment 😅)

Yes, I'm bouncing between perspectives - @BabyGoth suggested it a while back, and it has been such a fun writing challenge! I'd never written from Medan's POV before, and I've really enjoyed giving it a try. I'm glad you've enjoyed the experiment, too! 😁

[Privatedancer]

I can’t wait to read the last installment from Medan’s POV - when he guesses Viola’s attraction.  And then…THEN.  Gahhhh!!!!!  Waiting is sweet torture ….just don’t make us wait too long;). I hope he lets Viola take care of him- and more!

[sprinkles287]

Ahhh! Another one! *swoons*
Love love love hearing Medan’s perspective. Really gorgeous work. Thank you.

[HPG]

This story is fantastic!

[marzipan]

Thank you all for reading! I so enjoy your comments, suggestions, and requests! This following bit picks up Medan's perspective on a section narrated earlier by Viola (from the end of their coffee date through Viola deciding to stay at his apartment). So, there are two more installments from Medan's perspective remaining (both of which will parallel parts already narrated by Viola), and then I'll be picking up their story in a new (hopefully better organized!) thread. I hope this bit was worth the long-ish wait! 😁

Viola wasn’t expecting my blunt question, if her frozen expression was any indication. I really should have laid the groundwork for this question better. 

“Just to be clear, I’d be happy if this is indeed a date. However, if it isn’t, of course I won’t be upset. As you have probably deduced, my ego is perfectly healthy - one might even say it is arguably too robust - and it will pull through just fine.” 

Viola opened her mouth like she was about to speak, but then dropped her eyes to the table, toying with her paper napkin and looking just about everywhere but at my face. I was tempted to wait in silence until she figured out what she wanted to say, but when I noticed her lips trembling - I assumed with anxiety - I forged ahead. “You also don’t have to tell me why, or pick something so definitive as ‘yes’ or ‘no’ if… if you’re not sure. Perhaps because I tend to be a bit of a... polarizing person, I tend to assume people make their decisions about me quite quickly, but I could be wrong.” “Polarizing” was the genteel way of putting it. “Insufferable” was the more commonly applied adjective. 

It was hard to see Viola’s face; her gaze was fixed on her napkin, and when she was looking down, her hair obscured her eyes. I leaned forward to try to get a better read of her expression, but  I could just deduce from her perfectly still hands and slightly quivering chin that some strong reaction was percolating, but was unready for expression. 

I hadn’t realized how close our hands were until she slid hers forward to touch mine. Indeed, I had been so focused on her face that I almost unthinkingly pulled back in sheer surprise, but fortunately, I curbed the impulse. I felt sure that if I had flinched, she would have startled away. 

“Um… I… I would be… yes? Yes, I’d like that, if you would too?” Her voice was so quiet that I almost wanted to ask her to repeat herself so I could be sure of what she was saying, although I hated it so deeply when someone asked me to repeat myself after I’d stuttered through an unclear sentence that I hardly ever asked someone to say the same thing twice. 

Viola sounded so needlessly tentative - like she thought there was the remotest chance that I would say “uh, no, I’m actually not interested in going on dates with people I find fascinating, attractive, and bewilderingly kind - I prefer to be bored, repulsed, and belittled.” I didn’t know what to do with my flood of relief following her cautious answer, other than respond as promptly as possible: “Yes, of course.”

Viola laughed in giddy relief, shaking back her hair from her face to regard me quizzically. Her eyes - a perfect shade of warm, toffee-like brown - were wide with a combination of surprise and pleasure. “Are you sure? I mean - I can’t believe you like me.”

I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at her. Fortunately, she seemed to interpret the gesture as it was intended - a fond, concise, and nonverbal way of saying, “You fool. You’re just about perfect.” 

Alas, perfect moments are often fleeting, and, when my phone buzzed with a text alert, lighting up with my mother’s number, I resentfully accepted the brevity of that particular perfect moment. “Just a second, sorry. It’s Mum.” My mother didn’t usually text me, and - perhaps because of my propensity for cynicism - I was immediately suspicious that the universe was restoring some kind of cosmic balance by hitting me with some lousy news as a counterweight to this good news. Usually, I enjoy it when my first guess is right - it elevates my confidence in my intuitive abilities - but in this particular circumstance, I wasn’t pleased to find that my gut instinct was accurate. “NEED HELP W/ FRAUD INVESTIGATION ASAP. AT OFFICE. URGENT. COME NOW.”

My mother’s tendency to text in capital letters when she wanted to get my attention was annoying, but far more immediately concerning was the text’s ambiguity. Usually she’d text full paragraphs explaining each and every intricate twist and turn of whatever her plan was with excruciating detail - her brevity was more concerning than her verboseness would have been.

“Well, shit. I have to go.” I hoped I didn’t look shaken, but given Viola’s immediate concern, I hadn’t succeeded. 

She offered to walk me to my car, but we didn’t speak as we walked. By the time we reached my car, I still hadn’t figured out what to say to her. What's really the most important thing to convey, anyway? And, even if I could figure out what to say, there's no guarantee my voice would cooperate. “Viola. Thank you for the date.” Her face instantly lit up when I said “date,” a response so transparent, so genuine, so sincere that it stopped me cold. Her smile touched every part of her face, most particularly her eyes. If only I had a bit more time, I’d ask to kiss her right this very second. But, when I do ask, I know I’ll want to be able to… linger. Patience.

With effort, I pulled myself from the moment, but couldn’t resist adding: “Viola, please rest assured that yes, I like you, and what’s more, I find you very attractive.” Given her look of embarrassed glee, it seemed that perhaps no one had been so straightforward with Viola in the past, an apparent oversight I was eager to rectify. Also, given her radiance - apparent even to me, a man who all too often finds himself lost in the complexities and permutations of other people’s expressions and responses - I felt confident in leaning down to kiss her cheek. Not sufficient… but a promise of things to come.
 

It was probably mostly psychosomatic and fueled by regret that, as soon as I pulled out of the parking lot and started toward the office, I started to feel like I was teetering on the razor edge of an allergy attack. Sharp, irregular inhalations fit my general edginess, regardless, and it was far more pleasant to direct my frustration toward my own allergic nonsense than it was to assign it to whatever was awaiting me at work. Keeping my mind trained on breathing gingerly, occasionally snapping my hand from the steering wheel to my nose to bitterly deny a budding sneeze its full actualization, verged on the satisfying in its vindictiveness. When I pulled into the parking garage, the combination of annoyance with work, annoyance with my reflexive hyper-competence for letting a stupid text pull me away from coffee with Viola, annoyance with my uncooperative sinuses, and annoyance with a budding headache had me in a mood I can only describe as “out for blood.” 

I was ready to bite my mother’s head off as soon as I walked into her office, so it was an unwelcome jolt to find not her, but, instead, one of her newly-hired administrative interns, Min, waiting for me. My general pent-up anger suddenly felt outrageously disproportionate. 

“Min. Hello. What’s going on?” Mum has found an inoffensive proxy so I don’t have the opportunity to fight her directly. Well played, Mum. Well played. 

Min looked like a nervous wreck. “Oh my God, thank you for coming - your mom said you’d know what to do, but I’m not sure - I think maybe we should wait, but I -”  

In this circumstance, I was too impatient to wait, on anyone or anything. “Please. Just tell me what’s going on.” 

“Elisa had to run to another meeting. She asked me to wait for you, and, um… um… I’m sorry, I just - I don’t know how to tell you this. She just called me in, and I don’t really know what’s going on - “

“Min, I promise I don’t believe in figuratively shooting the messenger. What’s wrong?” 

She swallowed anxiously, fingers drumming against my mother’s desk. “I guess there’s been a, like… embezzlement… situation.”

She stopped like she was waiting for me to say something, so I did. “Yes? And?” 

“I guess… someone has been forging false documentation of properties, I think to draw out funding through our rental assistance and creative reuse programs? I… I really don’t know -”

I interjected to redirect her slightly panicked rambling. “Right. For how long?” 

“Oh, God, I don’t know. From the way your mom was freaking out, maybe years. I guess they got overconfident and tried extracting a larger sum of money last month, which is why your mother got suspicious.” 

“Well, it appears their overconfidence was justified, given that she let it slip by for so long.” I realized my comment was too catty for the occasion only after saying it. “How much was the sum in question?” 

“I don’t know overall, just that the most recent draw was 12% of our bimonthly operating budget. Elisa left these records for you to look through and said you’d know what – “ When I picked up the files, Min stopped talking. I assumed she agreed with me that, at this particular moment, speaking seemed unnecessary and unprofitable, so I wordlessly began paging through bank statements. From a purely intellectual perspective, I was intrigued. Untangling a web of lies, deceit, and bank fraud might even be a rather good time, if only time pressure, reputational damage, and professional humiliation weren’t factored in. 

 I was too engrossed in reading to be attentive to Min, so when I looked up to ask her whether Mum had left me copies of the fraudulent lease forms, I was startled to discover that she was crying. 

“Oh.” My disconcerted “oh” seemed to upset her more; her tears escalated from a silent stream to more vigorous sobbing. “Min. Ev - ev-... ev.. everyth-...ev-...” Goddammit. In a moment of reflexive self-condemnatory frustration, I slammed the files onto my mother’s desk with more force than strictly necessary, making Min jump and turn to me wide-eyed and shaken, which made me feel even worse. “I…“ I held up a finger for her to wait so I could stare at the carpet for a moment, pause, and pull myself together. Think short sentences and long pauses. “It's...my stammer. Bit annoying. Everything’s fine. So. Bank fraud, huh? Also... fine. We’ll figure it out.”

 Min more or less tip-toed over to me, still crying the kind of gulping, red-faced tears I associate with being at the end of one’s tether. In a thin, wavery voice, she muttered “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get all weepy and gross like this - I’m just an intern, but this kind of money - it just - I can’t believe someone would - and to your parents, too - it just… it must be so much worse for you - “

“No, not really. I only g-…get upset about monetary losses higher than the national debt.” She laughed a soggy and only slightly hysterical giggle, which gave me hope she was feeling a bit better. “Alright, thanks for waiting for me. You can go - you shouldn’t have to work weekends.”

She responded predictably: “You’re working weekends.”

“Yes, well, I’m getting paid better than you. I’ll see you Monday.” I then retreated to my office, silenced my phone, and got to work.

The next thirty-six hours were, to put it mildly, a tad busy. I didn’t intend to not sleep, precisely - it’s more that when I got into the rhythm of work, I couldn’t extract myself from it long enough to realize that I probably should. When I woke up disoriented and still in my office on Monday morning, the bright morning light flashing through the blinds instantly triggered a sneeze so sharp I didn’t have the chance to even half-repress it. “Errrhhshuuuh-uuuuhh - oh, shit.” Sneezing felt akin to being stabbed between the eyes; it hurt enough that I instinctively grabbed my forehead as though I was keeping my face from falling off. The pain was also a distraction from prevention measures, so two more sneezes escaped before I managed to stifle the six following in rapid succession, leaving me deflated, panting, and decidedly unkempt. 

I’d condemned Mum’s lack of foresight and wisdom approximately a million times since Saturday afternoon, as I’d slogged through grant proposals, litigation strategies, and leases. However, I was now forced to recognize that I, too, had just managed my own impressive display of obtuseness. I’d ignored the nagging headache, the catch in my throat when I spoke on the phone, the heavy feeling of congestion descending despite being in an air-filtered, climate-controlled office, the burning sensation between my eyes when I bent over to chuck notes into the trash - all to my own detriment. The clarity brought by a couple hours of sleep made it obvious. I was sick, and also a blockhead.

Struggling to my feet felt like swimming through molasses. Gathering myself, I tried to formulate a logical, doable, and sequential action plan. 1) Leave Mum a note telling her I’m working from home. 2) Get out of the office without being seen by a living soul. 3) Make it back to my apartment. 4) Maintain a steady rate of productivity without getting so sick that I can’t be productive. 

I was no stranger to working while ill - college and graduate school had seen to that. My system wasn’t foolproof, nor was it particularly scientific, but a regimen of strong black coffee, inhaling steam until I collapsed into sneezing fits that would clear out the worst of the congestion every few hours, and regular dosages of Advil usually kept me functional, if not exactly at the top of my game.  

Time is an illusion when one has a temperature, is on a deadline, and can’t fall asleep. Thus, I hadn’t realized I hadn’t checked my phone for who-knows-how-many hours until I noticed with a bit of a start that the “workday” (which one? Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday?) was technically almost over. Thinking I’d probably missed scads of texts from Mum giving me directions, I opened my inbox, but only had one text. Given my splitting headache, I read it a couple times before it sunk in - it’s Viola. 

Her text read: "Elisa said you’re sick. I’m so sorry!  Can I bring you anything/help out with work stuff?"

 A quick review of my notes informed me that I had, in fact, mislaid a file series and left them to languish in my office like a damned amateur, so, swallowing my professional pride, I texted Viola back: Thank you for offering. Could you please bring me the series of files in my upper left desk drawer in my office? They’re marked North-Reed and stamped “urgent.” 

When she confirmed that she would, I realized that meant I would be seeing Viola in slightly under twenty minutes. I hadn’t quite connected the two eventualities before replying, and the responding swell of panic was far more unpleasant than the congestion fogging my thoughts. For one thing, having people in my apartment generally set me  on edge. It felt too personal, too open. For another thing, the thought of someone - particularly Viola - seeing me like this was deeply unsettling. The sensation of my chest tightening wasn’t wholly attributable to the cold. 

I almost considered texting her “never mind,” but, instead, reconciled myself to the fact that this was happening, and I should pull myself together. II headed straight for the shower. If there was ever an optimal time to induce a fit to clear things out, this was it, and there wasn’t a moment to waste. 

My timing was fortuitously impeccable; no sooner had I put my glasses back on did my doorbell ring. “Thanks for bringing the files, Viola. I hope it wasn’t too far out of your way.” My aching throat made my voice sound like I’d been gargling with glass. 

She responded with a smile. “Yeah, of course, no problem. Are you doing okay?” I realized I was blocking the door, subconsciously postponing letting her in. Don’t be a coward. You’re a mess, she knows you’re a mess, and you might as well be frank about it. So resolved, I stepped back so she could come in. “You can set those on t-t-hheehh…” 

Viola, ever-attentive, murmured  “...bless you?” in advance, but her consideration simply fueled my resolve to not let myself sneeze. If I was deluged by another fit now, there was no way I could keep myself from starting to shake like a leaf. I’d just been worn down enough that what I could customarily manage to ignore - or at least downplay - would rip through whatever facade I might attempt to cultivate. 

Temporary mastery of the impulse achieved, I managed a quick apology before it felt like the room itself heaved under my feet. Instinctive sense memory of prior bouts of sinusitis-related dizziness told me I needed to grab onto something and close my eyes until the feeling passed. The first time I’d experienced vertigo, I, in true foolhardy ignorance, had told myself to just gut it out. In that instance, I had come to face-down on my apartment floor - disoriented, bruised, humbled, and eager to never repeat the experience. 

Viola’s voice sounded like she was calling down a deep well. She's asking me what was wrong. I struggled toward the right words. “Overtired, I guess. It’s been...it’s been too much.” 

“Is it work stuff? What’s going on?” I truly wanted to explain, but could only manage a hopelessly imprecise “It’s just… kind of a mess.”

“...what’s a mess?” Viola spoke like she wasn’t sure she should ask. Now that I’d taken a few steps back from the figurative cliff of unconsciousness, I noticed that her hand, still resting on my shoulder to steady me, was unsteady itself. What might reassure her? Why am I so bad at figuring out how to be reassuring?  “Please don’t worry about it. Your job is perfectly secure.”

“That’s not actually what I’m worried about. Medan, when was the last time you slept?” Her question was so unexpected that I laughed, slightly more acerbically than intended. 

She started to rub circles into my shoulder absent-mindedly, and I resisted the urge to lean into her touch and let it ground me. “Medan, I really think maybe you should take a break and -”

 I shook my head emphatically. “No time. This is t-t-t…t…oh, goddamnit. Htshuuuh! Hrrrshuuuuh!!” Fortunately, sneezing didn’t worsen the dizziness, although the resultant surge in pain behind my eyes was less than pleasant. “Sorry. Headache. Anyway, this is time sensitive.”

My reference to a headache prompted Viola to soften her already perfectly smooth and even voice, making it even more beguilingly comforting. “Medan, we’re just a planning firm. Deadlines don’t have to be urgent -” 

Mum wouldn’t want me to tell Viola. However… I’m not sure I give a shit. “Viola, the books don’t balance. We’re short of funds, and by thousands. Mum wanted my help because she counts on me to be discreet. She might not like me particularly, but she does at least trust me to not go around blabbing about our –” I stopped short, recognizing that I was about to lose both my sense of propriety and my ability to speak fluently. “Viola, you’re welcome to stay and help, and of course you’re also welcome to go, but you’re not going to change my mind.” 

I’ve been told a time or two that my stubbornness is one of my most infuriating attributes, so I didn’t quite know what to do when Viola simply replied, “I’ll stay. Have you had dinner?” 

[sprinkles287]

I’m so excited!!! Thank you for continuing this story - it’s my favorite. Made my entire weekend.

[RipleyToo]

I agree! Please continue! I can’t wait to read more about tough guy Medan being all sneezy and sniffly. 

[EveP]

Love this update and am eagerly waiting for more. I love stubborn sick guys. ❤️

[Privatedancer]

So glad you are back.  I am looking forward to getting Medan’s perspective of being so sick at his place that he had to give in to looking and sounding disgusting but then him noticing Viola’s acceptance and something more and piecing it together and then…THEN finally seeing what that leads to….(doing my happy 💃🏼 ).