Sunday brunch

The end of the year was never easy at work. Not only did we have to meet the targetted results and face personal appraisals, but we also had to play it cool and smile whenever things did not go as expected, which was exhausting. You never know which part of your day and looks can be used as ammunition against you when competing for a promotion, so the only option is to prevent the enemy from gearing up against you. In the corporate world, no excuses are allowed on the path of survival and success. Those TV guys who travel to a desert island with nothing to eat have nothing against us. They would be out of the competition in less than two weeks if they had to work with us during December, surviving on litres of crapy coffee.

The number of meetings I had been invited to in the previous weeks was borderline insane. If I had been paid overtime, I would have been able to buy a little island in the Caribbean, but that was not my reality. I had been working like a dog, earned my promotion, and in a single night, realized nothing would be as planned anymore. Why couldn't things just go as intended? Why did my life feel like a roller coaster despite my efforts to be responsible and "just" do what I had to?

The Saturday night was terrible, and I did not sleep well. Every time I tried to close my eyes, the only thing I could see were the faces of my terrified coworkers asking me to help them, my boss, and the talk about being promoted after our Christmas dinner. After an hour of battling those images in my head, I stood up. I spent the night organizing my wardrobe, filing bills and random letters and watching videos of dogs and cats driving their owners crazy. I fell asleep as the sun rose and wondered what my life would turn into in the following days, as if all that thinking could change anything.

A few hours later, I woke up with my phone. Someone was calling, and I feared it could be my mother asking why I hadn't called her the day before. However, when I looked at the screen, I did not see her name but Rachel's, one of my many coworkers and one of the few friends I had made since I moved to that city.

I didn't even have time to say hello. As soon as I picked up, Rachel started talking at maximum speed, as she used to.

"Brunch? Today? What are you doing? Still sleeping? You don't usually sleep so much, right? Difficult night? I couldn't sleep either. brunch, right?"

"What time is it?" I asked.

Brunch seemed like a good idea, but how could she be calling me? Then I remembered: she didn't go to the bar. She'd drunk too much during dinner, and we called her a taxi to go home. I'd like to tell her, but how?

"It's mimosa o'clock!"

Of course, it was.

"Where do you want to go?"

I was too tired to leave the house, but I didn't want to stay alone either

I did some math in my head about the time it would take me to get ready, arrive at whatever place she chose and cause her a panic attack with my story.

"Happiness?"

I almost laughed. I was about to tell her about the horrible night in my life in the city's poshest cafe.

"Sure, why not?"

"I'll be there in ten minutes; I'll have a couple of mimosas waiting for you."

Rachel knew me; that's exactly what I needed to start my day: vitamin C to boost my immune system and alcohol to make me immune to any pain.

When I arrived at the place, there was a waiting line at the door, and I prayed silently for Rachel to be already inside. I was not in the mood to wait an hour before I could eat anything. Luckily, when I passed the people queuing, under the enraged looks and the "don't cut the line" whispers, I could see Rachel sitting by the end of the room, with a glass in each hand, and calling for me. She wasn't shy nor had any consideration for the people at the other tables, the same way she was a bit chaotic at work, but I didn't mind. She was my best friend.

I sat at the table, and she told me she had ordered half the menu.

"I couldn't wait, sorry, I am starving. I hope you're hungry too."

"No worries," I told her, grabbing the mimosa on her left hand.

I downed half of my drink, and she looked at me as if she had seen a ghost.

"Are you okay? You don't usually drink so quickly. I was expecting you'd drive me home later."

"I did not drive here."

"Are you kidding? In those shoes?"

I was wearing a pair of fabulous silver heels. I was physically and emotionally distressed, but there was no reason to leave the cool clothes in my wardrobe.

"I had to walk; I stayed home the whole day yesterday. I needed the fresh air in my face."

"You could have opened the car window."

"So many possibilities, right?"

She laughed way too loud, and some people stared at us.

"Keep it low, Rachel."

"You worry too much!" she laughed and slapped my arm as she had done many times before, but that hurt. Suddenly, I felt like my skin was on fire, and I jumped back into my seat.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry, did I scratch you?"

I looked at my forearm. Nothing was visible, no wound or scar, but I knew perfectly that was the spot where I had cut myself the day before. I had to tell her, but I did not know how to. How could I explain to her I had tried to slice my arm after a nervous breakdown over my promotion?

"It's nothing," I said, "I might have a rash or something."

Rachel stared at my arm and then looked at me very seriously.

"There is nothing there. Ain't you gonna tell me? Did anything happen after dinner last Friday?

Friday, Christmas dinner, total disaster and chaos... I thought

"Vega? Earth calling Vega."

"Rachel, I got the promotion. Amir told me on Friday."

"Did you see him, or did he call you? It was terrible he did not appear at his department's Christmas dinner."

"You would have drunk less if he had been around and would not have had to cut the night early."

"It was totally worthy, but please do not change the topic."

"He told me on Friday. We saw him in a bar after you were gone, but he did not tell me much, just that I was now a manager."

I was lying, and I knew she could feel it. I'd never been good at deceiving others.

"You look different, you know."

"I did not sleep well."

"Bullshit. Something else happened, right? What have you done, Missy? What on earth have you done to be so shaky?"

I immediately thought of Amir in my apartment, the glass breaking, the blood running down my arm...

"Are you in trouble?"

I couldn't lie to her. I knew it. She knew it.

"I need help."