Ice To Meet You

Loves the article or loves it not?

I hit refresh for the 67594749th time, my heart beating like a drum inside my chest.

"Mia the article is good, you're a good writer. Please calm down and believe in yourself," inner voice soothes me but it's not working.

It has been 15 minutes since I sent the email to Amanda, my editor and I am holding my breath as I await her approval. I think I've done a pretty dope job but writing is weird like that, you never know when you've hit the bull's eye.

I close my eyes and press my fingers against my temples. My head still aches and I desperately need to eat an orange. That's all I am allowed to eat today. The bloating is real.

My computer chimes and I am jolted to reality.

Amanda has replied and I click on the email to open it. Why is it taking so long to open?

"See me in my office."

That is all the email states and I immediately chug the water in front of me. Does she love it or hate it?

I take a long deep breath and walk to her office.

I knock at her door as I pray to the good lord that she loves the article.

"Come in," Amanda says curtly.

I walk to her desk, which is impeccably organized yet crowded. Everything she needs is on it but in a stylish clutter and I wonder how that is even possible. Amanda looks up from her laptop and I just know she is not pleased. Her lips are pressed together and her eyes are bleak.

"I read your article and it is dog shit. You are not paid to write generic content that everyone else is writing about. Yeah, dating is hard, that is why you have the job that you do. Now give me something personal and support it with a few quotes from experts. Everyone knows dating is a bitch in New York but how is it screwing your happiness and what are you suggesting to make it easier for our readers?"

My heart drops to my shoes.

"You're right, I'll have something fresh, personal and real on your desk first thing tomorrow morning," I mutter, trying my hardest to hold in the tears threatening to slip out of my eyes.

"Hold your shit together Mia!" Inner voice yells at me and I am trying. I promise I am really, really trying here.

"Have a good rest of the day," Amanda dismisses me and gets back to typing on her laptop. I think I am officially canceled.

I walk straight to the restroom, open the door to the first stall and let the tears flow. I pray nobody enters the bathroom as I desperately try to suppress my sniffles.

Who knows, probably Oprah had the first day from hell too, right? At least I am not fired yet. That's something I guess.

I walk out of the stall, relieved that I am still alone. I tear some toilet paper, damp it and wipe the mascara stains and smudged eyeliner from my face. My cheeks are still red but thankfully my eyes aren't anymore. I blow my nose and fix my hair.

One look at the mirror and I think I can get away with saying I have a cold.

"You got this mama!" Inner voice encourages me and I think I can hold in my tears until I make it back home.

I get back to my desk and start reading Substance magazine archives. I have to learn from the women who have written before me.

Engrossed in the article "Things You Think About While Sucking Dick," my phone buzzes. I guess it's called blow job for a reason.

I pick it up and I have a text from Kent. For the first time in the entire day, I smile and unlock my phone.

"Let's celebrate your first day over dinner?"

My smile fades. There is nothing to celebrate about work today but just the prospect of seeing Kent again is reason enough for celebration, right?

He's just — I know he is unattainable and — I just, I like him giving me attention. After the horrifying day I've had, I deserve a little bit of entertainKent.

"Where would you like me to meet you?" I text back and suddenly the article is giving me tingles. Why is the prospect of going down on Kent not so terrifyingly intimidating?

He is the one snack I won't mind swallowing, or would I?

"Mia to earth, you still have an article to write and a displeased boss to tackle. All this Kent up energy will just be a distraction you don't need," inner voice gives me a reality check but I want to ignore it.

I can still write the article when I get home after dinner. I just won't stay out late. My phone buzzes again.

"I'll be outside your lobby at 6," he texts back. How does he know where I work? How does he know what time I get done?