Chapter Text
By: (Y/N) A. (L/N)
To: Editor-in-Chief Erwin Smith,
VARIETY Magazine Credentials Attached, Including Resume, CV, Motivational Letter and Additional Introduction
Following the instructions given to me, I will now proceed to offer a concise resume of myself. Good day, my name becomes well known on my CV, but does not give away enough character, hence this sheet you’re holding currently.
Originally from a small house in Queens, I grew up with loving parents, who, with time, developed contrasting views on what I should do with my life. Not to disclose information I should give only to a therapist if there ever should be a need for me to visit one, I’ll keep it to this: my mother is a respectable woman who put love first and came to regret it, growing up with unaccomplished dreams and living under the insistent delusion I will fulfil them in her stead. My father is a pillar of strength and unconditional support, who preaches freedom of choice and following one’s dreams and so do I. They are separated, still living together and want the best for me. I want the best for myself, too. VARIETY has been that ever since I read up on the ancient-style gossip columns back in middle school.
I have two dreams: work as a writer in VARIETY in order to help people and find the perfect guy. He exists and I’ve exercised my efforts for the past twelve years in search of him. That has resulted in twelve relationships so far. Don’t think me a pessimist. I believe in love and I believe finding it takes time, effort, communication, compromise, patience and, most of all, a pinch of luck. I am a hopeless romantic, an artist and somebody who always perseveres. Giving up is not an option. I’ve taught Pierrot – my parrot – to say that so I can sometimes wake up with it. Muffins are my favourite breakfast. I’ve developed trauma to peas. Christmas is my favourite holiday (I’m positive you would’ve thought Valentine’s Day, but I’ve played a little trick on you there). I have permanent stains on my fingertips from painting too much, have worked well over ten jobs in the past eight years and adore the colour blue in all its hues.
My flaws would be my proclivity to babble, the fact I’m a morning person in case anybody wishes to live out their grumpy dream at 6 a.m., smiling at inconvenient times (as it brought me my only detention in high school), having an opinion about everything because too much discussion tends to burden others, as I’ve noticed, having a short temper when it comes to people who refuse to believe age is just a number and it’s never too late for anything, taking my coffee with so much sugar it makes people look at me like I’m sick, my naivety on certain topics, listening to sad songs without being sad, my clumsiness on occasion, the fact I always sneeze three times in a row as it disrupts others’ peace and my honesty because it tends to hurt in a society where we’re not used to telling each other the whole truth. I think I’ve run out. If you decide to employ me, you might find some more and inform me.
I should think I’ve expressed enough of my character for now. I hope this information encourages contrary to discourages you. Also, in case I do become employed, please do not put my full middle name in any documents you might show to others. I doubt it will be on my wedding invitation.
Manhattan or, more specifically, East Midtown near Park Lane. The warmest of April afternoons. April was the month of change – it was what your father insisted. For him every month was a month of change, but oh well. You strutted out of the copy centre, surmising the freshly-printed paper in your hold gleefully as the sturdy windows behind you glared against the bright sunlight even the skyscrapers in the distance couldn’t quite hide. The air was warm and the usual bustle of the streets surrounded you. As a girl who grew up in a relatively quiet and peaceful neighbourhood, the constant sea of people used to unnerve you when you moved to Manhattan to study Journalism. But now you were a woman with eight years of experience on how to handle the busy hordes.
You moved against the current of hasty individuals and carefully tucked the printed sheets of paper in your bag. Next destination before you had to meet with Ymir – Michael’s. Just a block away. You were buzzing with excitement at the prospect of swiping a new set of oil paint and a new palette off the shelves, to the point you almost skipped through the automatic doors. For anybody who might not know, Michael’s was the safe haven of all and any who wished to pursue arts and crafts. It was Walmart’s artistic younger brother – a bit quirkier, too. The chain stocked everything – from materials for beginners dabbling in their respective field of choice to intricate and sometimes obscure items and appliances only veterans in the field would know of. It was your second favourite place in the world. Of course, it fought for the spot with your apartment. The first spot was taken by your parents’ house back in Queens.
Considering everything, every Michael’s in the area was like a third home to you. You knew the layout of each one like the palm of your hand. Hence why you instantly sauntered towards the back after waving at the woman behind the counter who smiled at your arrival. Frederica was too kind for words and too attentive when it came to her customers. You’d taken her out for coffee once. She was good with faces and names, and she made this particular Michael’s your favourite because the customer service she provided bore close semblance to what one would experience upon visiting their grandparents for the holidays. Being too excited to waste any time, you rushed to the fifth aisle in the back and began scanning the variety of oil paints. Different brands and colour schemes and palettes – your gleaming eyes browsed every last one before your indecisiveness took the wheel.
You put your index finger to your chin and tapped away at it in thought. Usually, it took you five minutes to decide and five more to make sure you’d made the right choice. During the procedure, you’d pace back and forth from one end of the aisle to the other to re-inspect each option. The process of the chaotically calculated ritual this time was cut off by the unexpected appearance of a solid obstacle. You didn’t remember Frederica telling you about putting up any mannequins – and the aisle for fabrics and fashion design was in the other corner of the store, too. Only after you’d collided with the inanimate object and hastily apologised did you realise it was neither an object nor inanimate. It was a man of short stature and he was holding your shoulder.
“Oh, I’m so so sorry. Are you alright?” His hold made your shoulder stiffen. He hadn’t budged half an inch from the collision and you saw he was glaring but when your eyes locked, the blue seemed at once to make your breath hitch.
“If you step off of my shoe, I will be.” The flat answer made you glance down. Your eyes widened and his hand withdrew from your shoulder. His features were altogether too austere to let your conscience rest, so you panicked.
“Oh my God, I’m--- I mean, shit, I no, shit is not what I meant. I apologise.” You cringed and hastened to take your foot off his, paling at the dusty imprint it left on his shiny black shoe. Your eyes flickered upwards and his chest heaved with a sigh. You blinked at the tight black shirt he wore. It had a V-neck. You loved V-necks.
“It’s fine. I planned on humiliating you publicly but you saved me the effort.” Astounding, but the mean intentions didn’t register right off the bat. Your brain lagged, then you gave an uneasy smile.
“Yes, well, that’s not very polite, but… I guess I did. You’re welcome,” you piped, making his thin brows furrow. “Are you, by any chance, looking for something? I can help.” The suggestion made him snort. Hostile as it might’ve been, it was an attractive sound. Then he politely declined your offer, stating he knew well enough where to find it. You licked your lips and your smile stretched a bit wider. “Well, you did find me.” One of the thin brows quirked. His expression was entirely that of an unamused person approached by a circus clown. “I’m sorry, is it very inappropriate to flirt right now?”
A typical meet-cute straight out of a romantic comedy. But this was a Michael’s in the heart of Manhattan and sure, the theatrics of Broadway weren’t a long way from here, but reality waited just outside the automatic doors. Then again, this was a handsome man and you were already making small talk. There was no harm in flirting. Naturally, he had to consent to it, too, seeing as his foot had suffered most from your unfortunate encounter. And even though his expression stayed indifferent as he snorted once more, when he lifted his hand and covered his mouth, you could swear you’d seen a dimple. You thought it your imagination.
“Not if the store doesn’t have any guidelines against it,” he concluded flatly, making you genuinely think back on whether Frederica had ever mentioned anything of the sort. When you were sure she hadn’t, the question of whether you could ask him out hastily tumbled past your lips. You were smiling, waiting. His lips pursed. This time, he managed to suppress the smile. “Yes.” You beamed at the affirmative response before he shook his head. “But only if you see me again.” The condition made your brows furrow. Why – that translated as a “no”.
“But Manhattan’s giant and overcrowded. Fate can do only so much to bring people together,” you reasoned calmly, making him hum as he stepped past you without glancing back.
“If you rely on it enough you have a minimal chance.” It was encouragement enough. April was the month of change. An interview for your dream job waiting behind the corner and now, meeting a man you felt instant attraction for. You were determined to bag both because giving up on either wasn’t an option.
“We will meet again then,” you declared firmly, making him turn around with a quirked brow. The look made you realise how you’d worded things. “But don’t take this the creepy way, I won’t stalk you. I mean, clearing that I won’t stalk you is a red flag because that’s what a stalker would say, but I promise.” You waved your hands around and he snorted one last time before turning the corner into the next aisle. His shoulders were shaking. You wouldn’t know it, but he openly chuckled the moment he was out of earshot. You, on the other hand, grabbed the first set of oil paint your eyes landed on. On the neighbouring shelf, you saw a quality palette.
“You seem excited, dear. I take it you noticed the new batch of watercolours?” Frederica scanned your purchases and you were rummaging in your wallet for cash, grinning wide enough for your cheeks to hurt. You were exalted and impatient to tell Ymir about it.
“Better, Frederica. I saw love at second sight.” The old woman’s forehead wrinkled in confusion but you didn’t stop smiling. “You know, since he’s letting me ask him out when we see each other again,” you ranted cheerfully, buzzing with elation whilst handing her the money. She hummed at your rouge sides.
“Do you have his name?” She cocked a brow, as though to reprimand your precipitate excitement. You took the plastic bag with the paints and the palette with a hearty pat to her wrist and a big grin.
“I have luck.” With that, you sauntered out of the store, leaving the old woman to shake her head at the counter. Just then, a pair of pale hands placed a block of clay in front of her. Looking up, she smiled.
“How’s Kuchel, dear?” She scanned the clay and heard the man say she was well enough. “Are you the handsome stranger who’s got my favourite regular excited?” Frederica’s hands were busy packing the purchase but the movement was mechanical and her eyes observed the austere profile turned in the direction of the automatic doors.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he objected flatly, making her huff. He was handing her a banknote. She returned the change with a shake of her head.
“I should’ve arranged this sooner, I think,” she mused with a small smile, to which he snorted, tugging at the collar of his black V-neck with a roll of his eyes.
“Leave it be. My mother’s pestering me enough as it is.” But Frederica kept smiling and he lifted his hand to wave at her on his way out. He doubted a second encounter would happen. After all, Manhattan was giant and overcrowded. Fate could do only so much to bring people together. The moment he stepped out of the store, if you’d turned back from your spot at the corner, you would’ve seen him running a hand through his hair. You didn’t turn so you didn’t catch him looking. Your steps were hasty as you made your way through the sea of people and it took you twenty minutes to reach the small coffee shop tucked snugly against the side of a skyscraper. Ymir had already ordered you a cup. It was still steaming when you sat down.
“So, let me see the results.” She reached out both hands and made a “gimme” motion like a little kid begging for their toy. You rolled your eyes and handed her the papers from your bag. For the next ten minutes, there was silence while she read. Silence between you two at least. The chatter from the neighbouring tables was lively and not at all muffled – nor was the speeding of cars down the street. The skyscraper bathed Ymir’s seat in shadow whilst yours was entirely occupied by sunlight – not blinding and by no means unpleasant. You quietly sipped on your coffee and licked your lips in nervousness when you caught her amused expression twisting in another variation of itself. Finally, she placed the sheets down and smiled. “Good enough. I think you’ll get it.”
“Don’t say it like that, Ymir,” you complained, blowing a raspberry into the air and gently putting the papers inside your bag. “You’re making it sound like I’ll get the job because of your grovelling, not because of my talent.” Her elbows were propped on the table and she smirked. Her face was strewn with freckles but they didn’t add amicability to her features.
“What talent?” She inquired and you glared half-heartedly, trying to nudge her ankle with your foot under the table. She pulled back, having sensed the incoming attack and held her hands palm-up in the air. “Kidding. Arnie, you’re the perfect woman for the job. You’ll have a hard time with the boss but you’re a perfect fit. We’re a bunch of weirdos, there’s no other way.” And the kick landed at the nickname she used. You’d have to make a mental note to threaten her into never using it at work if VARIETY employed you.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended by this.” Your arms crossed and she smiled brightly, shrugging her shoulders as though to let you know the choice was entirely up to you. Either way, if this interview went well, you’d land a position in the company your best friend had long ago managed to somehow sneak into. “Now, do you have any tips at all for me when the interview comes around?” She took a gulp of her espresso with a hum, hazel eyes bouncing from the street to the insides of the coffee shop like she was weighing options in her mind.
“Maintain eye contact but don’t stare at the eyebrows.” The firm emphasis made your face contort in a doubtful frown. “Erwin’s a pretty carefree guy so he’ll let most stuff slide but it will be for the best if you try for a professional air and then let loose.” Maybe having Ymir give you inside information like this was cheating – but this wasn’t a high school quiz, it was your long-time dream coming true. Her lips pursed and then she snapped her tan fingers in remembrance. “Oh, his tell on whether he likes you or not is in the eyebrows.”
“But you told me not to look at them.” Your eyes narrowed at her words, then she waved her hand as though to chase away a fly. In this case, the fly was your confusion.
“Look to check for it. If the left one is quirked, you’re done for. If it’s the right, you’ll get a welcoming email from HR the next day.” She grinned and you smiled wondrously at the information. Cracking the code was something as simple as glancing at a pair of brows. Left would mean going home, crying your heart out, eating a whole pint of ice cream and rewatching The Princess and the Frog. Right would mean throwing a royal banquet for everybody you knew; changing the world one article at a time like the idol you admired had done for you years ago – just the prospect of it made your fingertips tingle.
“Roger that. Left – bad. Right – good.” The moment you’d summed it up with a nod, Ymir shook her head and caught a glimpse of a passing waitress. She gestured for an ashtray, then turned back to you.
“No, no. Left – bad. Right – buying me coffee for the entirety of your employment.” You pouted at the words and when the waitress left an ashtray on your table, Ymir pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit up one, purposefully blowing the first puff in your direction and making your nose scrunch up. With a smirk, she began: “Topic of employment, my sweet thang, I’ll need you to be my wingwoman when Erwin makes you sign the contract.” You quirked a knowing brow at her confident exterior.
“Why? Is Krista not reacting to your very sexual pick-up lines, Fritzie?” You teased, making Ymir snort with an averted gaze. “You know she thinks they’re jokes.” It was normal that she’d think them jokes, too, taking into account Ymir probably dropped them every opportunity she got. You’d gotten used to your best friend enough to distinguish between her natural behaviour and her flirting; and you doubted sweet, pure Krista, as the object of Ymir’s feelings had been several times described, would overcome her shyness to differentiate them as well.
“My defence goes like this, Arnie: when I see an ass, I want to touch that ass. And if I can’t, I’ll say that I want to. Alright? I’m just being honest and expressing stuff, like you preach I should.” Ymir was exasperated with your old advice, mostly because she followed it in the worst way possible. Expression, as all other things, should’ve been applied in reasonable amounts, not to mention appropriate moments.
“Now, no pinning the blame on me, Don Juan. I’ve told you to be honest and express your desires but not like a typical misogynist on three flat whiskeys. You think so much about women that you’ve forgotten how to think like a woman.” It was true. Ymir had been a beast back in your university days – you could hardly count the number of women she’d slept with, much less those she’d flirted with. Ever since VARIETY employed her and she met Krista, she seemed to have, in a weird way, settled down. Still, the beast persevered under a brand new name – from “lust” to “sexual frustration”.
“I have definitely not! I just space off in boob land sometimes,” she argued and your eyes narrowed knowingly at her face. She took a drag from her cigarette with a huff. “Often times.” Your gaze persisted and she groaned before very shamefully muttering her final correction: “Always. Satisfied?” You gave a nod at the pointed tone she used and crossed your legs.
“Very much so. And you know why you’re constantly in boob land?” She sat silent at your question and you sighed. “Because you haven’t touched any boobs in two years. In fact, you’ve been entirely abstinent ever since you became aware of your crush. Which is very sweet, but also, it burdens me with your frustrations and when they explode around Krista as well, they repulse her.” Ymir glared and tapped at her cigarette.
“I don’t like your tone, Arnie. You’re talking about me like I’m an animal. And just so you know, Journalism and a bit of Social Studies in university don’t make you a therapist,” she reproached, making you roll your eyes before they settled back on her.
“Says the one who actually majored in Social Studies and graduated with honours for publishing the paper on the relation between Psychology and Patriarchy in Politics and yet,” the praise ended there, if only to create contrast between itself and reality, “cannot glimpse at basic cognitive functions and reaction patterns from constantly being in boob land. You should be your own therapist as far as comparing our educations go, genius.” Ymir went from being smugly flattered to being annoyed at your truthful conclusion, muttering that she was still forced to listen to you. “Without paying me for all the advice I give, too.” You smiled and she corrected that she’d bought you coffee. “Is it really worth as much as the painstaking efforts I’ve put into guiding you into a relationship throughout the past two years?” Her eyes narrowed spitefully at the “yes” she couldn’t give. “I thought so.”
“I told you about our free spot before Erwin issued an official announcement.” It seemed as though pride was oozing from her body. To that argument, you nodded and conceded it came closer to payment. You felt just a bit iffy about having Ymir slither you into the first candidate spots for the position but your morals were untouched because she’d given you no further aid and cheat codes when it came to the resume you should offer. “So? How’s your painting going? Did you give Pierre the biscuits I left you?”
“You know he hates it when you call him Pierre.” You snorted, thinking back on the African Grey you had at home. He was probably lonely. But he also adored it when you left the radio on so he could dance along to it, so it was probably fine. It was then Ymir argued he wasn’t here, to which you hummed and sipped on your coffee. “I gave them to him and he loved them. Couldn’t stop singing Halleluja while I tried to focus on shading.” You shook your head with a chuckle and Ymir slapped the table with determination, blowing smoke out of her nostrils and making you stifle a cackle at the sight.
“I’m going to teach him WAP next time,” she declared confidently and you instantly glared. Your best friend was taking too much advantage of your pet. And, technically, your pet was too intelligent to be called a pet, so, in a roundabout way, he was letting her take advantage of him, too. But mostly, he was the victim because when it came to memorising sounds he found impressionable.
“If you exhaust his capacity with Cardi B, I will murder you. It took me five months to teach him out of making sucking sounds whenever I had a man over,” you whined with a frown, making Ymir’s cigarette almost fall from her mouth when she burst out laughing. She was hunched over and slapping the table while you watched her unamused.
“Man, Pierre’s the only dude on this Earth I respect.” Ymir’s chuckling faded when you quirked a brow and mentioned her father skeptically. It made her roll her eyes as she took another drag from her cigarette. “My father’s a homophobic douchebag.” It had always been the final verdict whenever he was mentioned. You settled for it, then her eyes flickered to the ground at your feet with a curious hum. “And on bags, what have you got there?” Her head tilted to point at the plastic bag in the stead of her fingers and you glanced down with a small gasp of remembrance.
“A new palette and oil paint. Oh, and a new opportunity,” you piped and the contrast would’ve been amazing to a bystander paying enough attention: your lips curled into a smile and a red tint made itself known on your cheeks whereas Ymir’s tan skin paled in dread and her shoulders drooped.
“Oh, no. You always say opportunity when you meet a handsome guy.” Your smile persisted and she rolled her eyes, reclining in her chair and putting her cigarette to her lips. “How did this one go?” The smoke floated up and the sun shining directly down on your face made it feel a bit hot.
“I bumped into him and thought he was a mannequin. I think I crushed his toes.” You tugged on the collar of your shirt awkwardly and Ymir’s brows raised even though the rest of her face stayed indifferent. “So I kind of flirted and he told me I can ask him out.” The conclusion was joined by your fingers lacing together in your lap.
“And when’s the date? Two birds with one stone bets on the day of the interview so you can brag about it,” she speculated steadily, making you take a breath before you cleared you had to see him again first. To that, her reaction wasn’t all too severe. “And you haven’t called yet?” Her taunt stumbled out and you licked your lips as she snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait, I remember. It’s polite to wait two days – the perfect balance between not being creepy and not being forgotten.” The recital of what you’d told her long ago made you hum in uncertainty.
“I didn’t get his number.” The information made Ymir blink at you in confusion. “Or his name.” Her brows furrowed. “He said I have to bump into him at random.” You scratched the back of your head with a smile and she kept blinking for a few seconds, silent and processing, before her fingers came to pinch the bridge of her freckled nose.
“You’re a hopeless dumbass. Obviously, he doesn’t actually want to go out with you.” She put out her cigarette and you took a sip of your coffee, watching the remnants of smoke float out of the shadow cast by the skyscraper and turn a bright blue in the sunlight. He had some of that blue in his eyes. And maybe he was opposed to a date. But wasn’t it only normal to give a straightforward “no” in that case? You were strangers either way. It wouldn’t have exactly hurt your feelings.
“But he didn’t reject me outright and he seemed the stern type,” you objected to your friend’s pessimism, which just made her cock a curious brow at you as if to ask “so what?”. Your smile was peppy and your gaze was clear when you said: “So… I’ll believe in my luck. I think this one’s the one.” A bit too much when it came to a guy whose name you didn’t even know, but there was something there. One or two dates would make you positive. If you bumped into him again that was.
“You think that every time.” Ymir rubbed her temple in exasperation and shook her head right after. “Stop being such a hopeless romantic. Times change. The sooner you convert to the dark side, the sooner I’ll be able to introduce you to my girl friends.” She was smirking when you said you feared you weren’t convertible before adding men were too good. “And too disappointing.” The disgust in her eyes was unmistakable. You chuckled.
“This one seems fine.” Fine, because he didn’t seem all too normal. After all, you hadn’t met that many brutally honest people recently. Or, well, ever. Ymir didn’t seem to agree with your statement. Both of her hands being free, she began counting down.
“Until he’s revealed to have a tragic backstory, wife, anger issues, toxic masculinity, bad breath, small dick, pathological liar tendencies, hairy back, bad hygiene, unfixable trauma, hatred for children, sexist opinions, narcissistic disorder, genetically-instilled alcoholism, controlling behaviour, excessively aggressive jealousy or a victim complex. I think I didn’t miss any.” Her tone was pointed and her face was devoid of faith in humanity and vitality.
“You forgot the creepy hymen-like thing between the toes.” You put an index finger in the air and she nodded along, a tired sigh slipping past her lips as she muttered that you broke up with guys over big shit or no shit at all. You pouted, an argument at the ready. “First, it made Elliot very insecure no matter how much I reassured him. Second, there was an accumulation of dirt in the toe-hymen. Third, his hygiene overall was problematic and so were his issues with his mother.”
“Oh, yeah, mommy issues. That, too.” Ymir pointed ahead. The list had about twenty items on it and you scowled at your best friend’s smirk. “In case you meet this mystery guy again, I want to start betting on what he’ll have.” Her self-assuredness made you pout.
“You have to stop bringing down my love life like this. I won’t marry somebody I met at Michael’s. There was just… something about him. He didn’t seem like the rest.” Even if it was the attraction blinding you, you were sure of that. Something had been different. You had enough experience to claim you’d never met anybody else in such circumstances.
“And how many times I’ve heard that one you won’t believe. Actually, I think it’s about fifty so far.” Ymir threw her hands in the air with a loud snort, making you roll your eyes at her theatrics. “What about this guy makes you think he’s sooo different that you’re hell-bent on defending him right now?” She was shrewd when it came to your linear thought process on the topic of guys.
“He was… weird, but not bad weird, good weird. I mean, he said he planned on publicly humiliating me for stepping on him and then that I’d saved him the effort. And then he was super polite. Also, he was at Michael’s.” You were gesticulating fervently and a blush rose to your cheeks at the description you were painting. You were a hopeless case when it came to hiding some things. Ymir’s perceptiveness took the lead when she propped an elbow on the table and leaned her cheek against her fist with a knowing look.
“He’s really handsome, isn’t he?”
“… very.” The breathless wheeze made her click her tongue as you stared down at your lap in shame. “You don’t get it, Ymir. It’s like… I want to paint this guy so badly. I swear, even if I never see him again, I’ll probably compare actors and TikTok thirst traps to him,” you defended frantically, making her put a hand in the air as though to stop you from crossing the line.
“Not the thirst traps! That’s going too far!” Her outraged argument made your hands slap your thighs in determination.
“It’s true,” you exclaimed whilst she reached for her coffee with a suspicious expression. “He’s the epitome of an aesthetic human being. He was wearing a V-neck, you know I’m weak to those. Seemed muscular. And his eyes had blue in them. Also, from a painter’s point of view, the contrast of the pale skin and the black hair,” you paused and took a deep breath before sighing with a dreamy smile, “exquisite.” It was a soft whisper and Ymir scrunched her nose at the sparkle in your hues.
“I want to buy one ticket to boob land, please,” she droned flatly, making you shake your head to exit the daydream of having such a nice model for painting.
“I’m not going to apologise for being physically attracted to somebody, Fritzie.” It was a firm declaration. You’d stand your ground – when Ymir saw that, she only sighed in defeat. “If I meet him again, I’ll ask him for a picture so you can be objectively defeated in this argument.” Because you knew she wouldn’t be as stubborn as to deny the beauty of somebody’s appearance just because it was that of a man. Beauty was something that made all people weak and it was as objective as it was subjective. You wished you could write an article on that. And if you saw the man again, you’d put a picture of him to reference objectively undeniable male beauty.
“I might become a granny before that happens, but sure.” Ymir’s words marked the end of the topic and reminded you in a way of something you’d meant to ask her a few days ago – namely, if she was up to travelling with you to Queens so you could treat her and your parents to a royal feast when you got the job. At the subconscious optimism you’d applied to the invitation, she smirked. “Look at the timid kitten baring her confident claws.” You tried to kick her under the table and she laughed. “I’ll come along, sure. But when you get the job, it’ll be just in time for our monthly bar gathering, so we’ll be hungover on the way.” You dismissed the warning by saying it wouldn’t be the first time your parents would be witnessing her influence on you. It didn’t touch a nerve because she was well aware she’d corrupted you. “Hey, I don’t endorse temptation, I am temptation. And I made your twenty-first birthday the most memorable night of your life.”
“So memorable I can’t even remember it, yes.” You crossed your arms and she chuckled devilishly at that. The only way for your to remember your twenty-first birthday would be through watching the many dim blurry videos Ymir had taken and sent to you the morning after. She took out another cigarette and her phone buzzed.
“Oh, shit.” The cigarette fell in her lap when she cursed, holding her phone with furrowed brows. “I have to do the devil’s bidding by midnight. I totally forgot.” You quirked a brow at her hastily putting the cigarette back in the pack and shoving it in her bag. You asked her what her editor was making her do this time. “Last-minute redo. The board meeting was last week and the printers were postponed because my structure was off.” She put quotation marks in the air with a sour expression before slamming her hands on the table with a groan. “I swear that guy has not an ounce of mercy in his little body.”
“Come on, you’ve spent three years complaining about him but he can’t be that bad. He wrote nice articles back in the day.” You nudged her ankle with your foot under the table but she shook her head at your hopeful smile. To her, you were far too forgiving and optimistic. To you, she was too spiteful at her boss. Surely, he had his reasons for criticising. He wouldn’t have been promoted if he wasn’t capable.
“The fact he’s my boss makes him bad enough,” she grumbled with a frown. “If you have the epitome of beauty on your side, I have Satan’s brother on mine.” You chuckled and asked where his tail was, to which she snorted. “He hides it in his perfectly ironed suits. I swear, you’ll be very disappointed in your hero the moment you see him.” Because the open spot on the writers’ team was in her department. Which meant he’d be your boss, too. But it had been your dream for years to see him – you doubted you’d be disappointed.
“You’ve told me he oozes pessimism but I’m yet to experience it.” You shrugged with a smile and she shuddered in dread, face contorting in agony at the three years of supposedly traumatic experience her editor had given her thus far.
“Not just pessimism. He drains the energy from every living being in a five feet radius. He never screams and yet, somehow, he’s digging holes into your head with just his eyes. He can see a typo a mile away. And I’ll never forgive him for making us do push-ups to be the social experiment in Mikasa’s article.” There was spite in her voice and her eyes to the point they darkened. She’d gathered her stuff and left money for your coffees. She was drowning the rest of hers when you added the tip to the bill.
“Well, you’ve got your hands full with that. And I have to go paint.” You picked up your bags and she glanced back at the table with a sigh. Maybe she wanted to stay longer. Her eyes locked with you when you pushed your chair back in place and used your hand to wipe the stray ash that had landed on the table.
“Text me and come down to the lobby when you’re done with your interview tomorrow, okay? I’ll take my lunch break and bring Krista along.” She opened her arms for a hug and you nodded before stepping forward and accepting the casual affection. Ymir wasn’t one for hugs under normal circumstances. She was really a softie sometimes. “I know you’ll bust Erwin’s ass. Now, go. See you tomorrow, Arnie.” And just when you’d grinned at the supportive words and turned around, her hand reached down and slapped your ass, drawing a gasp from a neighbouring table occupied by a pair of elders.
“Do not part ways with me like that, Fritzie. I swear to God, this is not the Christian way,” you admonished after swivelling to face her with a scowl and she only grinned. That specific cocky display hadn’t changed ever since you met her.
“I’m just loving you like we should all love each other. Self-expression, remember?” You shook your head at her using your words against you, then she waved and rushed down the street in the opposite direction, leaving you to smile at her figure disappear in the sea of people. Ten minutes later, you dropped your bags off by the front door of your apartment and heard the radio in the kitchen. When you made your way there, you saw Pierrot’s grey head bobbing along to Dua Lipa.
“I’m home, Pierrot. Were you good while I was gone?” He immediately turned around at your cheerful tone, nodding along both to your question and the song. You grinned and offered him your hand and he climbed off the dining table onto your wrist, making his way to your shoulder with affirmations of the fact he’d been good during your absence.
“Peas, Arnie!” Your smile didn’t twitch when you heard the request. His left eye was prodding at your temple when you chuckled and headed to the fridge where you had, at all times, a bowl of peas. Pierrot had become an addition to your family back in your freshman high school year when you still lived with your parents. And since your mother had a habit of ignoring the fact you hated peas whilst making dinner, your father had secretly suggested you gave them to Pierrot, who became instantly enamoured with them. Oh, the irony.
“Of course, sweetie. Here are some peas,” you cooed softly, bringing the bowl up to him so he could take a few. A happy purr-like sound vibrated in his throat as you put the bowl back inside the fridge. “Let’s go paint?” You put the question mark there for the sake of conversation. You’d figured way back that Pierrot liked being addressed as an equal during conversations. He didn’t like it when your mother regarded him as a pet. Once, he even corrected her with his name when she called him a bird.
“Paint. I watch!” His head bobbed and you chuckled, feet soundlessly pattering down the narrow hallway into the living room which you’d turned into a studio. Your landlord had gotten used way back that you’d be a long-term resident. With that in mind, he’d allowed you to make a few changes to the apartment. So the orange walls greeted you when you walked in, humming at the canvas awaiting on the easel you’d left to dry overnight. Your hand extended and Pierrot, already aware of the ritual that would follow, used it as a bridge to settle atop the canvas, careful not to tip them over or pierce them with his claws while you rushed into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.
“You know, I met a really handsome person today. I want to see him again,” you spoke, hastily slipping out of your shirt and shimmying out of your jeans before throwing on the paint-stained black T-shirt that reached almost to your knees. “I think I’ll sketch him. Or is that too creepy?” Your head showed in the living room and Pierrot tilted his own at the smile on your face.
“Yes!” The definitive answer made you pout as you walked back to the canvas.
“Don’t be like that, you remind me of Ymir. Well, I have a landscape to finish anyway, so I’ll work on that. And you have to wake me up at 6 a.m. sharp tomorrow so I won’t be late for my interview.” Your firm tone made him nod a few times as he climbed back onto your shoulder. You would set an alarm on your phone, too, even though you were already used to opening your eyes to the sound Wake Me Up by Evanescence right by your ear every morning. You didn’t regret teaching him the chorus in high school. “I’m hyped, Pierrot. This is the month of change. I’m sure of it. I’ll get the job. And I’ll have more money for painting tools when that happens.” And canvas, and brushes, and expensive watercolour markers you’d promised to buy for yourself. You’d have more money for clothes and fancy food, and new cutlery.
“And peas!” Pierrot reminded wisely by your ear, making you chuckle as you grabbed the brushes and glanced at the palette you’d washed and left on the ground.
“Yes, that too. You’ll have all the peas in the world. Do you like that idea?” If anybody ever tried to argue that Pierrot wasn’t intelligent, you’d wish to show them this exact moment of him ruffling his feathers in excitement before snuggling against your cheek. Yes, you and your parrot were equally gleeful when it came to the month of change. So for the next few hours, you painted and sang, and Pierrot hummed along. Karaoke night with your parrot, and you gave him all the green peppers from the Chinese take-out you ordered in the evening. At nine o’clock, you began your skincare routine and he pushed the respective bottles with his beak in a perfect sequence. You went to bed at ten sharp and slept soundly up until the moment your alarm blared at 6 a.m., joined by Pierrot having left his cage in order to sing Evanescence over your head.
You got up and the parrot beat you to the kitchen, where you turned on the radio for some atmosphere and thanked him when he dropped a spoon into the coffee you were about to stir. If you weren’t so set on finding true love, you’d settle perfectly into a life shared with Pierrot, who knew, at this point, every step of your day and helped you through most of it, to the point he even picked your clothes for the interview. A tight-fitting red blouse paired with a black skirt and velvet jacket – formal enough. Also colourful enough after Pierrot screeched at you from the drawer where you kept your jewellery and you took out a silver necklace with a red apple pendant, clipped it around your neck and smiled at yourself in the mirror.
“Wish me luck, Pierrot. My dreams might be coming true today,” you said, leaning down you kiss his head for goodbye. He bashfully flapped his wings and made kissy sounds while brushing your nose with his beak. Always careful not to scratch you – how you loved this bird.
“Good luck, Arnie!” He called as you were slipping into your shoes. The radio in the kitchen was playing and you locked the door with a smile. The documents were secure in your bag and the pep in your step was visible as you walked down the street, greeting the sun every time you crossed the road and smiling at strangers who seemed just a bit grumpy in passing. You were humming Justin Timberlake under your breath and thinking: this was the big day. Fifteen years of dreaming and studying and working and persisting – and today was the day.
You still remembered the first time you’d glimpsed the VARIETY magazine on the small table in the dentist waiting room when you were ten. You hadn’t been able to understand some of the words and topics in it, so your mother had read it for you to calm your anxiety before the appointment. Ever since then, you’d begged her to purchase the magazine and with time, had begun to purchase it yourself. You were first in line on the morning it arrived at stores. You’d save it till the evening to read before you went to bed. You’d been a timid shy kid. And the one article you’d read on a random Wednesday in February had been about effective socializing – the magic of a smile and a nod. In spite of your outgoing persona, exactly that article had won you your first proper boyfriend and your first real friend at age sixteen. You were a late bloomer in that regard and swore you’d be eternally thankful to the writer. Ever since then, you kept the name Levi Ackerman in high regard. You even preached to your father how you wanted to be like him – changing lives one article at a time. You went as far as to develop a crush out of admiration. He was your hero.
Each time you read VARIETY, you saved his columns for last – like the most precious of desserts you had to savour right before it was lights out. When you moved to Manhattan to study Journalism, you fancied working side by side with him. Becoming an equal to somebody that intelligent and eloquent was your goal, your dream. Contributing like he did was sure to make your life as sweet as chocolate. If you could meet him, have him give you advice, tell you of his ideas and opinions – it would be like heaven on Earth. And one day, about three years ago, when you opened VARIETY and his column was nowhere to be found, you felt your heart drop, only for a bitter smile to fight its way to your lips when you found his name tucked in the corner of the last page. He’d been promoted to editor. Some months later, Ymir told you he was her boss, too.
So you spent the next three years defending some of his critiques and agreeing with most of the corrections he made that occasionally pissed off your best friend. You admired the righteous discipline he applied to his work and missed his articles all at once. You were also in complete awe of his talents when she mentioned he was only four years your senior – meaning his first article in the magazine had been published when he’d been twenty. A literal prodigy the Editor-in-Chief had stumbled upon during a random contest for all Journalism Majors in the state of New York. Admiration mingled with respect. He was still your hero and you let Ymir rant about his unjust manners over coffee but you were secretly exalted at the idea of finally meeting him. Levi Ackerman. No matter how your best friend described him because she had no pictures to show for it, you were sure he’d inspire awe. You hoped he wouldn’t have blue eyes – otherwise the old crush might bloom anew. But what harm was there in that?
Lost in thought, you didn’t sense the arrows of the clock moving until it was ten to seven and you were standing before the office of VARIETY. The big glowing letters stood before you and Ymir was probably on the eighth floor, hunched over her desk and complaining about the fact she was still sleepy. You took a big breath and licked your lips prior to grinning and stepping through the doors. The receptionist directed you to the elevator. Your interview would be on the eleventh floor, in the empty board meeting room. You had three minutes to spare and seemingly little competition when you stood in wait by the door.
At 7 a.m. sharp, footsteps echoed down the long hallway. Editor-in-Chief Erwin Smith was, in a way, fearsome. You nodded at him politely when he stood before you and the only other candidate. The girl seemed to be wracking with nerves, so he invited you to go first. You followed him into the room with a smile and quiet steps. He seated himself at the head of the long table and invited you to sit by him. Without waiting for him to prompt, your hands reached into your bag and handed him the documents that had been requested in the job application. He nodded in appreciation and got to reading. Meanwhile, you observed. His blond hair was slicked back and reflected ever so weakly the sunlight coming in through the French windows behind your back. His posture was proper and strict but his tie had cactuses on it and was crooked at the knot. His features exuded composure when he placed down the papers and caught you off guard – it should’ve taken him more time to read them.
“Now, Miss (L/N). My staff directed the most promising resumes to me when they were handed in. As you know, we issued a request for an Additional Introduction with full creative freedom. This interview will proceed in a similar manner, as I have already confirmed your credentials to be satisfactory. All I want from you is honesty to a painfully unprofessional degree.” His speech made your lips purse before they stretched in a smile. You nodded in confirmation and he hummed. “My first question is this – when did you first read VARIETY?”
“When I was ten, sir. If we aim for truthfulness, my mother read it to me. It calmed me before my dentist appointment because I had a very painful cavity.” Your fingers were laced together in your lap and you licked your lips before he asked whether you wanted to work as a writer at the magazine for the money. You instantly shook your head. “Not at all. I believe I stated in my Motivational Letter and Additional Introduction both that I want to help people in any way I can.”
“And how do you plan on doing that by writing columns for VARIETY?” His brows were furrowed and you avoided looking at them, focusing instead of the bridge of his nose, where the glasses he’d probably worn earlier had left small red imprints on both sides.
“Exactly the way my hero did for me. Bit by bit. I believe people who bother to read bother to think. If they bother to think, they’re smart enough to pay attention to what they’re reading. And I’m sure I will include in my articles at least one sentence that might seem trivial to me but will affect somebody out there for the better.” You hadn’t been prepared for this question but you believed in your answer wholeheartedly. And when Erwin Smith inquired whether you’d be satisfied even if such a positive change was not made known to you, your smile widened. “Yes. I myself never sent a letter or commented on any site that the magazine had affected me positively. I’m sure some people would be too shy.” He hummed and glanced at your necklace.
“You’re an optimist. We provide a healthy work environment but you should know the company is burdened by constantly growing expectations. We have to outdo ourselves every month. Do you think you can handle the strain of that?” You licked your lips and took a breath.
“Fully certain, sir. I know how the struggles of content creation and the risk of creativity running dry. Nobody has an endless reserve of them. But the world is full of things to write about. I believe I can always think of something and carry through with a smile.” He’d asked for honesty and this might’ve sounded like a lie, but you did know the woes of hitting a dead-end when trying to come up with something new to paint or draw. And yet, the world was full of things that could inspire.
“And what did you say your favourite colour is, Miss (L/N)?” It seemed quite random of him to ask that and yet he’d warned you that this interview would be like the Additional Introduction. Creative freedom all the way – if so, he was allowed such questions. All required of you was the truth, meaningless as it seemed to lie.
“Blue. All its shades. Your eyes are ocean hue. And the forgotten keychain in the elevator is navy. Do you mind if I bring it down to the lobby’s Lost and Found on my way out?” Your inquiry seemed to stun him before he hummed. It sounded like Pierrot’s satisfied purring. The brief notion made your lips purse because you shouldn’t compare the Editor-in-Chief to your parrot.
“Not at all. Now, my last question for you.” You swallowed and his eyes bore into yours with intensity you’d only felt during staring contests with peers. “What do you think of my tie, Miss (L/N)?” You withheld a facial expression that would let him glimpse at your surprise. And, as per the flaw you’d listed in your papers, a smile that did not at all suit the moment curled the corners of your mouth upwards. You tried to fight it – but the contrast between his voice and his exterior had been too great.
“It’s crooked, sir. I don’t think the colour scheme matches your shirt that well, but I appreciate the pattern, seeing as you’re a man of power setting a good example for a more fun dress code.” Then you remembered Ymir’s instructions and glanced at the brows, in only for an instant. It was the instant his lips had parted to give you a response. Your heart dropped to your stomach.
“Thank you, Miss (L/N). This will be all. Please, on your way out, call in the other candidate.” Erwin Smith offered you a smile but you weren’t looking at him anymore. It had been the left brow. He’d quirked the left brow. Your heart cracked and you took your bag, standing from the chair, dusting yourself off and heading for the door.
“I wish you a nice day, sir.” You were smiling on your way out, kindly whispering to the nervous woman that it was her turn and heading to the elevator. You texted Ymir and she replied instantly. You put your phone away and your downcast gaze settled on the navy keychain on the floor. You crouched, picked it up and gingerly brushed it with your fingertips – the elevator doors opened and in stormed a grinning Ymir and a short blonde angel-like girl. Past their shoulders, before the doors closed, you glimpsed a giant aquarium and a storm of colours. You’d never get the chance to work there. Ymir gave you a hug and you were still smiling when Krista looked at your hands.
“Ah, my keychain! I thought I’d lost it.” Even her voice was that of an angel. It was quite fitting for Ymir to develop feelings for her. You didn’t have too much time to observe her.
“I was just about to hand it in…” You offered her the keychain with a meek sentence and she took it with a grateful smile. The moment the navy was out of sight your smile twitched. Ymir’s hazel eyes narrowed just as your brows knitted in repressed despair. “Fritzie, I--- I’m done for.” Each second spent in the elevator was painful – because it meant you were getting closer to the ground and further from your dream. And as suddenly as your smile had fallen, the tears had brimmed your eyes. Your best friend visibly panicked.
“Hey, hey, hey. Whoa there, wait, don’t cry. Come on, please, you’re making me uncomfortable. There’s no way---“
“It was the left brow,” you wheezed with a hiccup. “He quirked the left brow when I looked. It was because I told him his tie was crooked.” Your voice cracked and Ymir was patting your back, protectively leading you out of the elevator when it reached the lobby. “My dream’s done for.” Your mutters were low and Krista’s gentle touch was on your elbow, aiding Ymir in guiding you outside. The air was saturated with noises and smells, the sun was bright and this was the month of change – and yet your shoulders were shaking with mild sobs you found inappropriate to let out at the moment.
“Poor thing.” Krista rubbed your shoulder and Ymir pulled out of her backpack a lunchbox before handing you the chocolate inside. You munched on it and a tear slipped down your face. Ymir’s thumb awkwardly reached up and wiped it. Another followed. You were muttering incoherent sentences with your mouth full of chocolate. Ymir and Krista exchanged looks of sympathy over your hunched shoulders. Both of them were rubbing circles on your back as a way of soothing you.
“There, there. Next time they fire somebody, you’ll try again.” Your best friend’s words of encouragement didn’t work as effectively because you didn’t believe this to be the end, but you believed it was the end for the time being. The biggest pit of despair you’d had to face until now. Why had it been the left brow? Hadn’t you done well? Hadn’t your answers been satisfactory? Was this all because of the tie? You stopped sniffling midway through eating Ymir’s chocolate. With slouched shoulders and a pitiful smile, you bid the pair goodbye and headed back home. Once there, Pierrot chirped from his spot in the kitchen a greeting. And when you gave no response, he flew over to you, settling on the headboard of your bed as you stumbled out of your shoes and collapsed into the mattress face-first. You cried like that until exhaustion took over and woke up in the late afternoon when Pierrot’s beak was affectionately messing up your hair.
“Morning, Pierrot. I’ll be sad today but you try not to get depressed. No plucking your feathers, okay? It’ll make me even sadder to see.” It was a rumbly whisper because your throat was scratchy from sobbing too much. Your mouth was dry and Pierrot was nodding but the sounds he made at the back of his throat were very similar to the sympathetic whines he’d let out after you’d come home following a hard break-up. It would be healthy to vent your sadness, but unhealthy to plunge into a spiral. So you kept to your original plan and got up, changed into more comfortable clothes and waddled into the kitchen for the pint of ice cream you’d kept safe for the past two weeks. Pierrot brought you a spoon and you fed him some peas and pellets before both of you settled on the small couch in the living room. You propped your laptop on a chair from the kitchen and brought a blanket from your bedroom. Bundled up in the warm fabric, your hand idly brought spoonful after spoonful of ice cream to your mouth as your eyes followed the animation on the laptop screen. Pierrot, at some point, acknowledged the room was humid and took it upon himself to open the latch on the window. He was too smart and too good to decide to go for a fly.
“You’re working so hard for your dreams, Tiana,” you whined just when the grey bird had landed on your cocoon on the couch. He curiously watched your expression contort in childish misery. You were sure he’d seen you cry like this over a stubbed toe at least twice. “Wasn’t I working hard enough? I should’ve worked harder,” you sniffled and wailed exactly like a toddler while the woman on the screen was optimistically toiling towards her goals. You’d toiled like that, too. You’d been optimistic like that, too. So why had it been the left brow? “I-I have dreams, too. So why did my work not pay off?” You had no prince to help you, you guessed. But you’d been sure you hadn’t needed him. Maybe you really hadn’t worked hard enough. But you didn’t know what more there was for you to do. You cried and stuffed your mouth full of ice cream, and Tiana and Naveen were handsome, happy and so very diligent and devoted it made you whine harder as Pierrot snuggled the side of your flushed face.
“Skincare, Arnie! Come!” The African Grey’s beak nudged your temple when the ice cream ended and the credits were rolling on the screen. You shut your laptop and whined, and Pierrot’s beak kept nudging you even when you tried to conceal yourself with the blanket fully. “Skincare, Arnie! Now!” After nearly five minutes of that treatment, you finally buckled and dragged yourself off the couch and into the bathroom. Pierrot nudged the bottles in the sequence and you watched your face in the mirror. All the crying hadn’t exactly done your eyes a favour. And when you lazily got through the skincare routine, you realised it had brightened you up a bit. You felt up to the task of making yourself a quick dinner. You put some raw green vegetables in a bowl for Pierrot and he ate with you in the living room while you stared at the canvas ahead. You’d make tweaks to it tomorrow. It was nine o’clock when you went to bed and six in the morning when Pierrot’s stunning performance of the Wake Me Up chorus woke you up. You’d taken a day off to go to the interview on Monday, so you had a productive day waiting for you now. Maybe putting your energy into something would make you feel better. In no time, you’d be back on your feet.
You dressed for the day, kissed Pierrot’s head and turned on the radio before going to the Starbucks near Central Park. You’d been working there for a year now and your boss had employed you for the sole reason of stating you’d feel helpful in an establishment that served people their best part of the day – namely, their coffee. You greeted all your colleagues on your way in, wiped the counters and put on the black uniform apron with the white logo. Ten minutes later, the first customer was already in. It wasn’t much but you prided yourself in being able to supply every client with a dose of good mood besides some caffeine of their choice. Not to mention you were good with names, so there was no way you’d adhere to the worldwide Starbucks tradition of mistaking an order. The more time you spent smiling for customers today, the more your smile retrieved its usual genuine quality. You were taking down orders and making caramel lattes and matcha tea, and simple Americanos, and Irish coffees, and your mood was slowly but surely elevating.
It was noon when you were in the breakroom, munching on a blueberry muffin and engaging in small talk with your coworkers. You replied to Ymir’s messages about the pimple on her back and whined about the fact you’d have to buy yourself ice cream. It was during your afternoon break that you decided to text your father about the failed job interview. But to go through with it, first you needed to check your email to gather courage from the multiple advertisements you got overnight, one of which might as well pique your interest and result in a purchase. You were scrolling mindlessly through seasonal offers, discounts and random sales when something caught your eye. It was the email right below the April’s the Month of Change, So Change Your Mood For The Better With This Skirt offer. The sender’s name made your eyes widen.
VARIETY MAGAZINE, HR Executive,
Nanaba Rose
Welcome to VARIETY’s team!
You nearly fainted. The word “welcome” was the only thing you could see. Your heart was beating fast and you almost dropped your phone when your hands were shaken by unbelieving tremors. Then you squealed so loudly that one of your coworkers flinched. In a matter of seconds, a number of curious gazes landed on your form as you grinned at your phone and let out small cheers. Your boss walked in when the state of excitement had progressed to the point of you jumping out of your seat with a victorious cry: “I got the job!”
“The job where exactly?” His arms were crossed and he was glaring, while you showed him your phone and gleefully bounced in one spot. “VARIETY! I got it! I quit!” But you didn’t slip out of the black uniform apron and he warned you with a stern scowl that he’d withhold your April paycheck if you quit just like that.
“I know! I’ll deal with it somehow! My dream just came true!” In a bout of indescribable joy, you went up to him and clasped his hands in yours. He’d known you for a year. It was more than enough to hear about VARIETY – more than enough to grasp a mere paycheck wouldn’t sway such a decision. So his scowl faded into a countenance of utter resignation and he smiled.
“Congratulations, (Y/N). I won’t be expecting you tomorrow.” He shook his head and you nodded and thanked him over and over again, maintaining confidently that you’d at least finish your shift for the day after your break was done. For the remainder of it, you got pats on the back from most of your coworkers and resolved to read the rest of the email. So you sat down and opened it, and the contents painted your whole world pink for the entirety of the day.
Due to your outstanding credentials and the impression you left on the Editor-in-Chief, he has issued a congratulatory note from all of HR and his own personal request that you take your post as soon as possible. Specifically, tomorrow, at 7 a.m. sharp if it shall be convenient. Initially, no articles will be required of you because you need to acquaint yourself with the environment and the members of our community. Please exercise efficiency in acquiring an employee pass from the lobby when you arrive in the morning. We look forward to working with you and most of all, reading your material.
Yours Faithfully,
Nanaba Rose, HR Executive for VARIETY Magazine
“Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God.” You kept muttering it till your mouth got tired and, for the rest of your shift, you were positively glowing. You decided to put off texting your father – the moment you went back home, you’d call him. And so it was five in the evening when you took off the black apron and thanked your boss one last time before rushing back to your apartment. Pierrot might’ve been expecting anything but the giant grin you wore when you opened the door. “We’re in, Pierrot! You’ll have all the peas in the world! I’m a writer for VARIETY!” At the good news, he flew out of his cage and frantically circled the room while you jumped for joy in one place.
“VARIETY! Congratulations!” He landed on your shoulder when you collapsed on the couch in a happy daze. You petted his head and thanked him, and then took out your phone to dial your father.
“How’s it going, chickpea? You have good news for me?” You were grinning when he picked up and your cheeks hurt when you proudly proclaimed you’d be writing for VARIETY starting tomorrow. To that, he laughed as though nothing else was to be expected. “I knew you’d make it, chickpea. I’m so glad to hear it. I’ll have to get to work to buy your favourite things for your visit at the weekend.” You hummed along and reminded him to buy some kale for Pierrot before saying you’d be bringing Ymir. “She’s a part of the family as it is. I would’ve been disappointed if you didn’t take her. This is such good news I doubt even your mother will be capable of trying to come off as displeased.”
“A writer for a national magazine is better than a Starbucks employee wherever we look at it from. I hope she’ll be happy for me,” you mused with a smile, remembering your mother’s scoff when you’d declared years ago that you’d be moving to Manhattan to study in order to one day accomplish your dream. Now that you had, she could no longer argue that it was an impossible feat.
“I’ll scold her into it even if she tries to resist. You’ve been aiming for this since forever. A celebration is needed.” Just when you’d been about to respond, your father chuckled. “Oh, speak of the devil. Honey, (Y/N) finally got the VARIETY position. She’ll be coming back this weekend with Ymir.” You heard her voice in the background, muffled and somewhat flat before your father addressed you again. “She told me to tell you not to bring Pierrot, but you’re pretty much aware she doesn’t mean it.” He chuckled and you nodded. The African Grey in question tilted his head curiously at the speaker.
“Of course, I know. Yes, Pierrot, you’ll be coming along.” At that, he ruffled his feathers and probably caught the sound of your father’s voice, because he nudged the phone with his beak and spoke to him,
(“Martin, Martin! Peas!”)
which made the man on the other end of the line assure him that he’d give him peas when they saw each other. The promise made Pierrot excitedly flutter his wings, slapping your face and making you giggle as you reached up to pet him. “Well, now this has been settled at least. I should be hanging up, dad. I have a big day ahead and I need to get ready.” You stood from the couch and Pierrot swayed on your shoulder but retained his balance as you sauntered into your bedroom.
“So you should. Now, remember, smile but be honest. You’ll do well. You deserve this.” You nodded and stated you knew. He chuckled and you exchanged a pair of “bye”s before hanging up. You tossed your phone on your bed and glanced at Pierrot, who quickly took the hint and left your shoulder so you could change clothes.
“We need a plan of action, Pierrot. Dinner is a priority. But I guess I don’t want to text Ymir about this just yet. She’ll get angry that I got accepted despite the left brow being quirked.” You scratched the back of your head with a sheepish chuckle when realisation hit you. The left brow you’d seen was the one opposite your own left brow. So then… “Oh, shit. No. She’ll get angry because I was super dumb. I was so nervous I watched my left, not his. So it was the right brow all along.” You slapped your forehead and Pierrot tilted his head in confusion. “Oh, she’ll have my ass for this. So I’ll just surprise her tomorrow, I guess. Sounds good enough?”
“Yes! Surprise, no tell!” You smiled at the confirmation. Your parrot was too clever sometimes. Clever enough to know a text right now would probably land his owner in the hospital due to Ymir’s explosive temper.
“I agree. So I have clothes and decorations to think of. Ymir mentioned everybody was allowed to make their desk into their own creative bubble. So, I’ll take a lot of stuff along. Before that, what do you want for dinner?” You tapped your chin in thought when he proclaimed he wanted apples. “Fine then, master. You’ll have apples. And I’ll have sandwiches.” You headed into the kitchen and dined, then spent nearly four hours finishing the painting that was waiting for you on the easel in the living room, with Pierrot bobbing along to the radio. It was ten in the evening when you did your skincare and eleven when you restlessly jumped from your bed in the dark, grinning and turning on your laptop to binge The Princess and The Frog again. This time, Tiana’s success didn’t remind you of your failure because it hadn’t been a true failure.
Pierrot was sleeping in his big cage when you turned on the lights, too excited to sleep, and got to picking what you’d be putting on your desk tomorrow. You gathered various trinkets in a cardboard box and it was three in the morning when you huffed in satisfaction at the finished result. To calm your restlessness, you opted for a soothing hot shower. You washed your hair and Pierrot screeched in startlement when he saw you exit the bathroom in a towel. It was too early, after all – and he wasn’t used to seeing you aware at this time. You weren’t used to being awake at this time, too. You made yourself a coffee and coaxed Pierrot back to sleep before deciding to bake muffins for breakfast. Maybe you could make enough for your new coworkers, too. It was 6 a.m. when the muffins were ready and you were dressed. The first rays of sunlight were quietly slithering into the living room, painting with their golden glow the parquet floor and the orange walls. April was the month of change. You got the job. Now all you needed was the man. Easy-peasy.