A short story
The woman in blush.
The only person in that meeting who knew I was nervous was the woman I had spent an hour trying to impress.
Thursday. Nine people around a table designed for twelve. I wore blush because it looked calm. I had been awake since five.
At home, I had practised my opening sentence while fastening the cuffs.
In the lift, I practised looking like someone who had never practised an opening sentence.
She sat opposite me. No laptop. One fountain pen, which she uncapped when someone said something worth keeping. Twenty minutes in, it was still closed.
I knew my figures. I knew the questions. When someone interrupted, I said, “Of course,” in a voice I had apparently borrowed from a hotel receptionist.
She uncapped the pen.
Afterwards, everyone told me it had gone well. I stayed behind to put the pages back in order. They were already in order. I needed something to do with my hands.
Her pen was still on the table.
She came back for it while I was crossing out a sentence in my notes for the third time.
“You always dress like you already know the ending.”
“Usually I do,” I said. Apparently I was still presenting.
She picked up the pen. “Then you should read the last page.”
There was a handwritten sentence inside my folder. Underneath it, a time and a room number.
I checked my watch. I had eleven minutes.
Read the last pageRead what was written in the folder—and what happened when I arrived.
Full conclusion on my members-only page · Opens an external site