The Plan

by Qwen Salsbury

Day of Employment:

  389

  8:03 a.m.

  * Clothes: Favorite electric blue sweater and coordinating skirt.

  * Hair: Down and untamed.

  * PA Desk: Empty.

  * Cactus: Dry. At home on my old desk.

  MADELINE IS LEANING over my cubicle wall. She wants answers. Explanations. Details.

  Rebecca is not much different. She’s sitting on the edge of my desk, arms folded, looking rather terse. I was not prepared for her to be so upset about my quitting the PA position.

  “I suppose you expect a raise for lasting a week.” Rebecca huffs and crosses her arms. She’s clearly miffed, but exaggerating and not truly, truly mad.

  I continue to arrange my stuff. Stapler by monitor. Pens and highlighters in upper left drawer. “That was the offer you made.”

  “I think it’s amazing you lasted a week, Emma,” Madeline says. “Bert came closest, but he never said you’d quit. I almost can’t believe the day has come when I get to pay-out the special pot.”

  I’d almost forgotten about the side bet for a PA who left without tears.

  “Um, I didn’t earn that,” I say over the rapidly forming lump in my throat. I choke it back. There is no way this is going to show at work.

  Both are silent for a moment. Rebecca unfolds her arms and places a hand on mine. “Really? I didn’t mean to give you a hard time…I just thought you got fed up with him jerking you around.”

  “I’m fine. It was just an emotional moment when I gave up.” I smile quickly at them both and focus back on putting things away. “Just trying to be honest.”

  I would like a raise even if I’m only working here until graduation. I’m almost relieved I didn’t go the month and wind up being offered a promotion. “I did still earn the raise though,” I say and look pointedly at Rebecca. Pay up. I owned that position.

  And a few others.

  “Yes, fine. I suppose you did.” She huffs. Her reaction is off somehow. I look at her with what I assume is apparent confusion.

  She rolls her eyes slightly. “Never mind me. I’m just mad that I finally found a PA for myself that I like, and now I’m told that it is more important that Mr. Canon have an assistant immediately. So I’m without again.”

  “You can always take back what’s left of them when Canon fires them,” Madeline says, moving back to her desk to gather the winnings from the traditional bet. I have technically won since no one guessed that I would not end up fired.

  Rebecca nods thoughtfully and stands to leave. Then she sits back against my desk with a thud.

  “Rebecca.” Canon’s voice fills the floor. I feel my eyes go wide.

  “Good morning.” Rebecca nearly covers her surprise. “I take it your trip went well.”

  “Yes,” he says dismissively. “Ms. Baker, I will see you in the break room at noon.”

  Turning, I nearly beam when I see him standing there, imposing and somewhat larger-than-life. His face alters ever so slightly, a hint of smile cracks at the corners. He taps the top of the cubicle wall twice and leaves.

  “What was that?” Rebecca asks, her voice higher with each word. Madeline has materialized back at my desk. I cannot hear a single keyboard click.

  I shrug and smile. It is best to just get things out in the open. Less time expended on speculation.

  “That?” I move to watch him walk away. I watch him because I can and because I want to and because he is beautiful in ways that I’m just discovering even after a year of studying him for other reasons. “That was my boyfriend.”

  Rebecca looks surprisingly self-satisfied.

  Madeline’s mouth drops as well as the envelope of cash.

  I bend and pick it up. They both give me their own versions of a you-are-so-telling-me-everything-later-in-private look.

  The envelope quietly finds its way to Bert’s desk.

  12:03 p.m.

  * Location: Break room.

  * Lunch: Cobb salad. Chicken and rice soup. Cut tropical fruit (which I plan to share).

  * Madeline: Bemused. Trying to see Canon as human.

  * Bert: Confused. But $347 richer.

  * Rebecca: Pleased. She had a plan.

  * New PA: Familiar. Very familiar.

  * Canon: Late.

  WHEN HE ROUNDS THE CORNER, the atmosphere changes. The break room’s unusually quiet; people move softly, trying to hear. To understand.

  His suit and starched shirt also looks very incongruous among the plastic chairs and microwave dinners.

  “You are late,” I say and kick an empty chair out from under the table for him. “You should endeavor to attend future lunch meetings more promptly.”

  Smiling, he shakes his head, then opens up what looks to be a freshly delivered, hot sandwich.

  “Did you have trouble finding me? Already lose your edge tracking my moves?” I tease.

  “Oh, yes.” He snorts. “I stalk you.”

  “I stalk you right back.”

  We begin eating. After a moment, I nudge the fruit toward him.

  “You are nothing if not persistent.” He looks from the cup to me.

  “It’s up to you,” I sing-song.

  “I will have you know there is probably less pineapple at your average luau than in my system at this moment.” His voice is flat, the straight man to our comedic duo.

  I smile victoriously. It’s still fun to fluster, to influence him.

  I move on to soup just as a familiar form appears near our table. “The report from Rowe is on your desk, sir.”

  Alaric swallows but doesn’t turn. “Was I not clear to bring it to me as soon as it arrives?”

  “Yes, sir,” he barks and doesn’t tread lightly on the sarcasm. “You were at your desk when you said that, so I took it to your desk.”

  “I am not my desk. It does me no good on my desk.” He sets his sandwich down and turns to face his new PA.

  “You also gave the distinct impression you did not wish to be disturbed at lunch.” He looks to me quickly.

  “Mr. LaCygne, I believe you know Ms. Baker,” Canon introduces us without elaboration.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” I say, taking the hand he has offered. I note that he has a daunting presence and demeanor even in servile mode. This may work.

  “You will learn soon enough to do what he says, when he says it, even if it doesn’t make sense.” I offer my tried-and-true advice.

  Canon returns to his sandwich.

  “Thank you,” LaCygne says genuinely. “Logic is a hard thing to abandon.” With that, he’s gone.

  “Insolent little…” Canon grumbles.

  “Not working out already?” That is too bad. He seemed feisty.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t elaborate. It would give you an unfair advantage in the latest betting pool.”

  “I’m already excluded. Some unfortunate nonsense about ‘insider information.’”

  “Oh, however will you support your shoe habit?”

  “You like my shoes?” I smile up at him and brush my pump against his calf discreetly.

  He swallows. “I believe you are well aware how very much, and as I demonstrated for you yet again last night to what great extent I appreciate your shoes.” He takes another bite to hide his grin.

  I flush, recalling midnight last night, our post-ballet hijinks, a moment or two on Christmas…and a scenario involving a pair of red heels I just may have the nerve to try out tonight. Probably.

  The End

  And now for something completely different…

  Just over one year ago:

  7:58 a.m.

  THERE ARE DEFINITE REASONS I arrive at work before everyone else, and this little sojourn into metal box hell is a prime example.

  Marketing trials are 85% positive for the new labeling designs. If we…

  Smashed into the far corner of an elevator—and forced to interact and smell people with whom I would cheerfully go to my grave never having encountered—is not a great start to the day
.

  Only 72% for the teen target market. There has to be a way to appeal more. Maybe a re-package…

  Is that my phone? No.

  But finding that my assistant had failed to bind the reports and distribute them yesterday was no way to start this day either.

  That Nebraska printing company’s bid was so far below everyone else’s. Need to verify that they have the specs right.

  That was definitely my phone this…

  “Good morning, Mr. Canon.”

  I nod once. “Morning.” Whoever you are.

  I grab my phone and scroll through items while more people load and shift around like tiles in a child’s puzzle game.

  What would improve the percentages?

  Conference at 4:00 today.

  Dinner meeting at 6:30 with the Germans.

  Need the counter bids for—

  Everyone shifts, and I press myself flush against the back wall. Then they shift again, no doubt allowing yet another person onto the elevator. If we don’t all plunge to the sweet release of our deaths, it will be a certified miracle.

  Grand. The person now in front of me is nearly on top of me.

  What the fuck?

  Is that?

  Yes, it is.

  That is someone’s ass pressed up against my dick.

  A round, pliant, warm ass.

  She’s a brunette and comes up to my chin. That’s about all there is to say. She is all wavy, long tresses and a red dress of the simple¸ elegant variety. I don’t seem to recognize her. I also can’t see her face. That doesn’t really mean anything as I don’t normally dedicate much gray matter to employees who sit in cubicles. They might as well work for any of the other businesses that share this building, as far as I’m concerned.

  I might’ve willfully opted to reserve a few brain cells for this particular figure though.

  “Sorry.” I barely hear her voice. As the elevator starts its climb, her hand braces against my thigh, but I doubt she even realizes she’s done so.

  “Not your fault.” I hear my own voice like that of a stranger.

  Now, I’m at a loss as to why I would say that, why I would try to make her comfortable. It most assuredly is her fault. She is groping me and not respecting personal space. Crowded or not, there are some things one simply does not do.

  One does not rub against strangers in elevators or grab onto legs in close proximity to dicks that have been in recent contact with lovely asses.

  Lovely…

  I shake my head and clear this train of thought, utilizing my phone as a suitable distraction while scanning and forwarding emails.

  Percentages are—

  Market tria—

  It’s hopeless. I can’t think clearly with her pressed against me.

  And it pisses me off.

  The elevator ride with her can’t be over fast enough. My floor is next and it is still taking far too long.

  I resolve to never take the elevator again so that I can avoid this distracting person henceforth.

  The doors open, and I make to move around her…but I can’t. I can’t move around her because she is already gone and has taken her pretty ass and what I now see are red heels along with her, passing through the doors onto my floor and into our open office area.

  Well, this is terribly inconvenient.

  The doors close, and we’re up another two floors before it registers that I’ve failed to exit.

  2:58 p.m.

  LETTERHEAD CURRENTLY SAYS “Limited Liability Corporation” not “Company.” No such thing. Fix that.

  KC Company is ripe for merger or buyout.

  Conference call in one hour.

  Dinner reservations confir—

  That last thing I need to see when I leave my office is the first thing—the only thing—I manage to see.

  She’s standing up among the cubicles. Volumes of hair and her red dress practically a dead-center bull’s-eye in my line of vision. Charts and banners and everything fade away, ceding to the contrast of porcelain skin against auburn waves. The whole room is mere concentric circles leading toward her face.

  And, of course, even from this distance I can tell she is rather pretty. The fact that she’s not a hag with a comely figure is, of course, par for the day.

  She’s probably ugly on the inside. I’ll cling to that hope.

  Crap. What was I leaving my office for? I keep walking steadily, not letting the thoughts tripping my mind find their way to my feet.

  I realize I am still looking at her as I begin to turn down the hall. I blink away. Shake her image from my brain. It has more important things on which to focus. Fine. It is decided. The sooner I ferret out her flaws and irritating habits, the sooner I can get back on task.

  I look back one last time.

  Acknowledgments

  I am forever grateful for the support and inspiration of the collective of friends who were drawn improbably together over affection for one story, kept together through artistic efforts, and remain a constant foundation for one another now. They prove every single day that the coincidence of geography may be overcome to find the most compassionate, creative, and loyal friends that any person could be blessed to have. Look out world should they all be in the same room together one day.

  About the Author

  Qwen Salsbury was born in Kansas and somehow keeps ending up back there. Raised on her grandparent’s five-acre homestead within the city limits, her imagination was honed during long days of quiet play and spartan access to a TV signal. Now mother to handsome boys, she strives to ensure that they appreciate potential adventures found within the pages of a book, an honest day’s work, and what ingenuity may yield from mundane objects like a string and a cup. The boys prefer a PS3.

  After spending time in corporate America, she returned to school and received a BA in English—Creative Writing/Poetry from Pittsburg State University, the alma mater of Pulitzer Prize winning poet James Tate. She worked on a Masters there until going on to receive a juris doctorate from Washburn School of Law.

  A seven-time Sigma Tau Delta writing award winner, she has had fiction and poetry appeared in literary magazines and has had stories selected by fiction communities as featured story of the month and year. Predominantly a writer of romance, her romantic fiction varies from contemporary to historical to fantasy, though often with a humorous slant and poetic undertones.

  For reasons she can’t even articulate herself, she decided to start writing fiction again while solo parenting and going to law school.

  The writing of The Plan took on the form of a journal, which she posted online in “real time” over the Christmas holiday. It was immensely popular and many devoted readers still meet en masse online to read it in real time again each holiday season. Now greatly expanded to nearly double its original length, she believes that this book will be both a fun new read as well as rewarding to those who have already enjoyed the original story.

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