Today, I feel like freezing rain - sluggish, slow-motion collapse - as I drag myself into the office building where I'm supposed to meet Ms. Howard. I’d rather be anywhere but anywhere today. 

I wish I could have stayed home laying on my bare mattress, throwing a pity party until the sun dozed off, or gone to Kattar’s place and let him lie to me and pretend I’m justified in my never-ending tempest of temper.

But maybe it’s better like this. At the very least - there should be something good about getting out in the fresh air -  even if I’m barely breathing - and seeing the sun - though I can’t imagine what.

I run my hands over my knees out of nervous habit, though they’re more than warm enough. If anything, I’m borderline feverish. My head aches like my brain is pounding on my skull, asking to be let out and go-

I brush my hair back off my neck, letting it fall like a billow of black rain onto my steaming shoulders -

I catch sight of Ms. Howard as I do, neatly attired in a Christmas-green three-piece suit, matching tie, and high heels. Her dark mass of hair stands around her head like an immaculate explosion, barely even seeming to sway as she walks, like it’s crafted from plastic. I immediately feel underdressed.

Does The Foundation just have ties with some pastel formal wear manufacturer?

I rise quickly to greet her, holding out my less sweaty hand and forcing my nerves to hold it steady as I breathe out an overly chipper “Good Morning.”

She doesn’t seem to notice me at all, cleaning her glasses with a white handkerchief and taking the chair on the other side of the desk. 

Okay…

I-

Not knowing what else to do with my hand, I brush my hair back again, sitting back down in my chair with what I hope is a casual air. My empty palm suddenly feels exasperatingly dirty, and I resist the urge to wipe it off aggressively on my skirt - clenching both fists until they grow taught with the thread-like tendons showing vaguely through my thin skin.

Calm…

I’ve said it so many times that at this point, I should just tattoo on the backs of my wrists I’m doing everything in my power to keep from wringing-

The room is too quiet as she flips through her ten-thousand folders and opens her laptop.

It can only have been ten seconds, but it’s felt like an hour.

I see myself lying on the couch, wrapped up in blankets and “doom scrolling” through my suggested - through age-old text messages- skimming one of my playbooks-

But I’m stuck here, rooted to my chair whether I like it or not -

I see myself-

With no excuses or premeditated lies to help me out of this today. I almost wish someone would call and tell me a tree fell on my car.

“Do you have any reference images other than these?” Ms. Howard asks suddenly, and I look up skittishly, wearing a much less intelligent expression than I would have preferred.

I barely feel like I’m awake…

- Maybe this is another one of those nightmares-

“Other references…” I try to make myself focus, but every second of my painfully slow thought process, I watch her frown deepening by hairline increments-

Maybe I’m just imagining it.

I half expect her to grow a second head.

“All the references I had I sent to Mrs. King,” I say a little feebly. “They should be in the folder…”

I can’t begin to comprehend the meaning behind that look in her eyes. 

There’s no sound from the mannequin-ish frame - but I feel it - one shifted line in the poise of her mouth- 

“It’s a pretty redundant spread, don’t you think?”

“I-”

“Do you have anything that strays outside of this Picasso-meets-wilderness look?”

I don’t even know what to say to that, my lips parting in thoughtless confusion-

“Um…there are some other samples on my website…” I manage a little breathlessly, feeling like I’m being dragged through deep water - or a shallow riverbed - lacerated by pebbles and sand-

“I was pretty sure there were some pictures in the folder that weren’t of animals…”

With a curt frown like a no-nonsense college professor, she holds out her hand across the desk, and I stare at it blankly.

“The website,” she says irritatedly. “Pull me up the website.”

Hurriedly, I fumble through my pocket for my phone - find the website - hand her the trembling cell with reddened cheeks and fire at the roots of my hair.

I want…

My lungs are burning….

I want to go home.

The sound of her nails clicking against the glass has me on the verge of tears as she scrolls quickly - too quickly, I think - through the works on my page. I’ve never seen a living face look so acutely disinterested. More like an apathetic - clay goddess than a mortal made of flesh and bones and again-

Not one piece gets more than a milli-fraction of a glance - her eyes droning across the assortment with an impassive celluloid -

Borderline amusement-

-If I could even imagine her laughing beyond that subtle flare of her nostrils every now and again-

I’m absolutely certain that she’s laughing at me.

And then, all in an instant, something catches the Barbie’s attention.

I watch her pause, her eyes focusing on one corner of the screen with a brief hesitation.

“This is the piece you won the competition for?” She asks with as little interest as a voice could contain while still asking the question, turning my phone briskly toward my face.

She has to have known that.

Before I can even answer, she shrugs carelessly and that- 

She’s so manifestly unimpressed.

And I never thought-

But I-

Might be going absolutely insane-

Forcing myself to breathe softly.

I smile.

I don’t even know why, but something about the act of that seems to catch her off guard.

And something like pride in me probes me to ask with a saccharine sweep of my voice that reminds me of K-

“Is there anything there that will work with what you’re looking for, Miss Howard?”

She frowns, just slightly, looking over her glasses at me with an almost unreadable expression, and her mouth says crisply.

“It’s Mrs. Howard, Miss Palmero. And I’m certain I’ll be able to manage something.” 

All I do is nod in return, feeling a bit dollish myself, and for some reason, that seems to irritate her all the more.

Rather than returning my phone, she lays it down on the desk by a gray folder and turns back to her computer with the subtlest hint of a scowl.

Casually, I take the cell back and hold onto it delicately in both hands, resting them primly in my lap.

Ms. Howard doesn’t look back up at me or even look me in the eye - simply begins reading from her screen like I’m not even present, and she’s talking to herself:

“Apparently, The Foundation is particularly set on you having some more forms of online promotion in the coming months: interviews, videos for digital magazines and journals, a digital museum gallery, et cetera. It seems you started working on something like this with your last agent Mr. Carmichael…”

I won’t flinch. Sit stoic.

“-We also have a few messages from companies that were hoping for a chance to work with you. How would you feel about teaching a workshop?”

I blink twice.

“A workshop?”

Ms. Howard sighs, tilting her head at me with that same teacher-ish posture, “You’ll teach classes to help people learn how to paint…”

“No…I know what a workshop is. Just…teaching one?”

She’s cleaning her glasses again. Surely they don’t need it…

“There’s a visual arts center in downtown Baltimore willing to pay you a rather ridiculous sum to teach a painting workshop there once a week on Saturdays. If you think you’d be able to put together a course…”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to make one,” I say firmly. “If you could just get me in contact with the center so I can talk to them and get an idea of what it is they’re looking for, demographic-wise, experience level-wise…”

I see a flicker - a moment's dubiety in her face before she looks back at her papers - reminding me of something I saw once in a thriller more than a decade ago.

“Of course, that can all be arranged.” She flips a page in one folder, writes a few words, and crosses out a few more, but there’s something about her posture that makes me think…

“The center is Jewish-owned, and while they’re clearly not strict about running classes on the sabbath, there will be no communication with them at the end of the month as the center closes yearly for Passover. If you’re certain about your decision, we should be able to get in touch with them before then but…”

“I’m certain,” I reply coolly, and she just looks at me.

Two seconds.

“The transfer paperwork has also come over from Mrs. Xochitl.” She clicks her pen, scanning the detail sheet, “That is…Alicia Palmero…maiden name…?” 

She glances at me after this question, and I simply nod, reddening a little though I know I have no reason to.

“Age 28, birthday October 25th…”

“Could I,” I ask quickly, holding my hand out, “Read it myself, please?”

Again, a moment’s pause before she relinquishes the paper, and I rest it on my lap, brushing my hair back with one hand as I turn the first page-

“Could you stop doing that?” She says suddenly.

I look up at her confused, raising my eyebrows with the silent question.

“Touching your hair so often,” She motions to her own pristine ‘fro as she shakes her head with annoyance, “If you need to move it out of the way, why don’t you tie it back?”

I feel my face flush again as hot words fill my mouth like bitter bile-

Be…

“I’m. Sorry. I’ll bring a hair tie next time.” I look back at the paper quickly - the agitation shape-shifting into tremors bubbling beneath my skin even as I do. I feel like a volcano, subconsciously raising my hand to push my hair off the burning surface but I catch myself just in time-

Still something smarts - forming angry tears at the ends of my eyelashes as I look up again, handing Mrs. Howard back the file.

“It’s all correct-” I start to say.

But she sees something in my face - I realize too late as the epiphany floods over me in a flaming tide-

She looks down with just the faintest ember of a smile darkening her face as she shades her eyes with one large hand.

“Goodness. Mrs. Xochitl wasn’t kidding when she warned me you were a bit of an emotional type.”

.

“What?”

I’m so dumbfounded my mouth speaks though I understood her perfectly well.

Again she doesn’t seem to hear me but raises her eyebrows like she’s talking to herself.

“Kids these days. They can be so hormonal.”

And for the second time in ten minutes, I wish I could spit or scream - swallowing back the words I want to say and forcing myself to smile - glowing like a baby sun in a bottle-

There’s a line like this - in a play-

I feel my visage grow turbulent- as I beam at her with an expression I can feel even if I can’t see it- and I know whose faces I’ve seen it on before.

“Ah, but you’re mistaken,” I say sweetly, and I don’t hear my own voice, but a certain-

“We’re nearly the same age, you know.”

Metamorphosis…?

The mannequin leers at me with thinly bridled disgust as I realize-

“So, about the digital gallery?”

I’d give just about anything to hit this woman with a chair.