“End of Day”
William Auten
Copyright © William Auten
Three colleagues from the marketing department jog by Lyssa: Maribeth pops thumbs-up while she wobbles in her heels; Michael, last summer’s part-time intern hired as full-time, claps while he giggles; and the third, Lyssa has seen wearing a new outfit every week, dashes off a selfie or a video. They stop at the cubicles Lyssa nicknamed Big Fake Flowers after she came into the office one Sunday and, balancing in her chair, peered over her walls and into the metal petals spiraling out from the axis drilled in the floor. Michael mouthing He’s doing it pulls at Lyssa. More colleagues gather and snicker, and hands soon shoot up and wiggle like the body is ready to ascend. <Another one> pings Lyssa’s instant messaging. <The outside world is calling you Brody! Freedom isn’t free but they’re the ones paying for it hahaha.> Someone high-fives Brody as the celebration swells until an executive flings open his door and barrels down the hall toward another door, which slams shut. Lyssa flinches at Brody until she realizes he’s not flipping her off. Her IM blips <Who’s next?>; a string of <Me>, <i got names and dates to live for>, and <can’t f’ng wait> follows.
Michael leans on Lyssa’s cubicle. “That’s twelve percent of us gone in a month. You’d think they get it.”
“Everybody can get lost in a house of mirrors.”
“We’re gonna threaten soon. Carlos is willing to go first. He’s got all that institutional knowledge. Maribeth says she’ll go too. Her husband got a promotion.” He swipes his phone. “I already got a verbal from a non-profit in D.C. Ryan and I can move whenever they make something legit. We’ll probably make a little money on our house.”
“That’s nice to be able to do all that.” Lyssa organizes papers and smooths the skirt she repaired in her apartment over Thanksgiving.
“I won’t make as much here, but Christ, this place.” His brow wrinkles like something offends him, but the offense could be anywhere—and not anywhere in the office. “They treat admin the worst. I mean, literally they don’t care about you.”
“I struggle with this more days than I don’t.”
“Do what we’re gonna do. Shoot before you’re shot.”
“I would…if I could.”
“We’ll let you know when.”
Her fake smile acknowledges him but nothing else.
“They’ll wake up when we get involved.” Michael tugs his purple suspenders as he leaves.
Lyssa turns toward her computer and pulls up the resignation letter she drafted when, she and her colleagues believed, the culture, rumors, anxieties, and sleep loss could not worsen; when she and her colleagues talked about a different future but hadn’t filled it out to move toward. A calendar reminder flashes: Dr. Hibbets Thursday 6:00 PM. She slides on her headphones, blocking out whispers and crowing from surrounding cubicles, and returns to her work.
A breeze ripples the curtains while Dr. Hibbets opens the case holding the virtual-reality headgear. “How’s work been?” she asks as Lyssa takes a glass of water and reclines.
“More stressful than usual.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The therapist increases a red column on her screen. “Would you say quite a bit more stressful or just a little bit?”
Lyssa drinks and sets the glass on the table. “It’s not as bad as it has been.”
“That’s good.”
“But I’ve been reminded again by my coworkers that they can leave anytime.”
Dr. Hibbets decreases the red column, lengthens another column, and slides together graphics—a forest and a stream. “So another work stress attached to the main stress?”