Sanity // s.m. [IN EDITING]

[23]

Elliot

***

I could hear them talking from outside the door. There was a women's voice, her tone low, only, to my disadvantage, I couldn't tell what she was saying. She sounded nervous, anxious, jumpy. I couldn't just barge in.

I could hear my boss responding to the unfamiliar voice, in her usual snappy, tough-as-nails forum that made me sweat. Even the simplicity of hearing the muffled translations was enough to make me picture her gaze, so uncanny, so knowing-- it makes me turn away each time it fills mine.

I had been standing still and keeping to myself for so long that by the time the door I was leaning against pushes open, I hop backwards and nearly spill the coffee tray I was holding all over my top. Great, I think to myself. I was becoming jumpy again, getting startled by almost everything.

"Oh, Elliot," my CEO smiles, her shoulders square as she closes the door behind her. She had recently cut her hair to her shoulders, and it fell limp over her blouse. She was aging, small, creased wrinkles pressing beside her temples. "I was just coming out to get you."

"I- I got your c-coffee," I stutter, looking down briefly to double check that I really didn't spill anything. You can never be too sure. Lucky for me, no one was really around to see my little mishap. Interns aren't supposed to go into meetings unless they're called to, which I wasn't-- so most of the office was in their own meetings at the time.

"Oh, good," she chirps, clearly exhausted. She takes the cup I offer her, bringing it to her lipstick-smeared lips and taking a sip. "We have a new intern, a reporter from Rolling Stones. They warned us about her, said she was a little tense."

"Is that who was in there?" I ask. I try to seem friendly, like we're best mates, even though she makes me so nervous I want to turn around and run away most of the time.

"Yes, that's her. She's not much older than you, so I figured I would place her in your department."

"But you said she's a reporter?" I furrow my eyebrows.

"She is, but you will be too after your internship."

I nearly choke on my own saliva. "What?"

I waited for her to laugh and wave a hand, show some indication that she was kidding-- but she didn't. She just stood there and took another sip of her coffee.

I can't be a reporter. I'm not loud enough, or bold enough, or scary enough. I don't have the courage to step into a giant swarm of chaos and jam a microphone in someone's face. At least, I think that's what reporters do.

"We all agreed, it's where you'd fit best. Don't act like its such a bad thing, dear. It pays quite a bit, and you'd do a hell of a job," she compliments, ready to end it there and get back to work.

"I seriously do not agree," I try to calm down. "I'm a novelist, ma'am. I don't know the first thing about reporting."

"That's what she is here for," she points toward the office door, where the Rolling Stones reporter hasn't exited yet. I hoped we weren't talking too loud. Though if I know anything, the door is almost completely soundproof.

"I'm sure you'll find it entirely easier than you think," she winks, and my breath halts. I can't handle her acting like we're friends, too.

"Go on in and meet her," she encourages me, beginning to walk away and yelling over her shoulder. "Her name's Brooke. Be careful Miss Johnson, she's not a walk in the park. Oh, and grab the coffee for the publishers section when you're done, their meeting is ending in about ten minutes."