Page 39 of Fake it ’Til Fall

This is my official position, and I am prepared to defend it in court.

The office, unfortunately, has embraced fall with the enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher during a theme week. Someone has put tiny pumpkins on the reception desk. Someone else has hung paper leaves from the doorway leading into the conference room. The break room contains a bowl of individually wrapped caramel candies that keep sticking to everyone’s molars and slowing productivity by at least twelve percent.

I suspect Mira.

She denies involvement, which means she absolutely did it.

“You look suspicious,” she says, walking past my desk with a stack of folders and a travel mug that smells like cinnamon.

I narrow my eyes at the mug. “If that’s pumpkin spice, I’m filing a grievance.”

“It’s chai.”

“Acceptable.”

“Generous of you.”

“I’m known for my fairness.”

“You called a seasonal latte ‘publicly-sanctioned potpourri’ yesterday.”

“And I stand by my statement.”

Mira sets the folders on the corner of my desk, which is less of a desk and more of an archaeological record of a woman losing a fight against paper. “Did you finish the volunteer schedule?”

“Yes.”

“The donor packet?”

“Updated.”

“The board presentation?”

“Organized, alphabetized, and emotionally more stable than I am.”

“And the wedding?”

I look at her.

She looks at me.

I turn back to my monitor. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Daisy.”

“That tone violates workplace policy.”

“We don’t have a policy about tone.”

“Then add it to the handbook. Page one. Right after ‘please don’t microwave fish in a shared space unless you’re trying to destroy morale.’”

Mira folds her arms.

I hate when people fold their arms. It’s such a confident use of elbows.

“You promised me,” she says, “that you weren’t going to answer wedding emails before lunch.”

“I did not promise.”