“We need to talk.”
Ominous words for someone scrabbling her way up the corporate ladder for years with little or no apparent success.
“Management’s received some, how do we say, comments about you.”
She squinted over her glasses.
“They, how do I put this delicately, they say you’ve been a little too chipper.”
“Too… chipper? You mean like happy? You can not be serious,” she snorted, losing her place in a stack of very important legal briefs.
“And that’s not all,” the drone continued (ironically) in a rather chirpy manner, “It has been brought to our attention that you’ve added colour to your attire and you haven’t put your foot in your mouth in at least a week.” He punctuated this puzzling statement by half-raising his eyebrows – expressing a mixture of faked commiseration and undisguised glee – to convey some imagined shared understanding.
She didn’t get it at all.
“So what? Is this is suddenly a problem, like an official complaint? Those fucktards are complaining about my choice of wardrobe? And as for inappropriate, barely an hour has passed since I extolled the greatness of a slightly bloodied, medium-rare steak to the HR and she a freaking vegan!”
“There, there, don’t get all riled up, sweetheart. It’s less a complaint than it is a matter of,” he paused for a second, cow eyes glazing over for the right words, “friendly concern.” He grinned as if to deflect the tension that was steadily building (more behind her eyeballs than in the air). She could never put her finger on why he looked so darned familiar, until now. An untimely flashback of last week’s National Geographic special on the Amazon drew up an uncanny resemblance between him and a South American pirahna.
Not the most comforting realisation she needed at the moment.
“Hey, sue me but I’ve just learned the joys of dressing up. Of going out and meeting new people. Of doing stuff that doesn’t involve black eyeliner and bad poetry. You want to know why I’ve changed? Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I’m no longer wallowing in self-pity, misery and make belief daddy issues. Aite?” She bristled as he smiled placatingly. Did he think her an infant? Fuck! She would give him a piece of her mind; to choke on.
So consumed by her indignance (and so intent she was on forming what might have been a brilliant riposte) was she that she missed the quiet, yet authoritative footsteps entering her tiny cubicle.
Later, it was agreed upon (although events leading up to it came in at least half a dozen versions) that it was the most spectacular (and discomfiting) production the office had ever seen – the four officers half-dragging, half-carrying her as she shrieked “Since when is being happy a fucking crime?”