“I think you might’ve gotten a bit on your sweater,” Keith says when Eli doesn’t reply to his question.

“It’s fine, it’s wool.” He can’t even see any potential stains forming.

“You always did love a good sweater.” The past-tense words are doing their best to sound familiar, comforting, but Eli doesn’t

want them. “I’ll see you at the meeting, I guess...” Keith says to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches as Keith takes the sopping-wet mess in his hand and tosses the napkins into the nearby

trash bin.

The elevator doors go to close again, and Eli rushes back to his feet, rearranging the drinks in his arms. He nearly collides with Jackson, one of their accountants, almost ruining more drinks as he speed-walks toward the conference room.

Michelle, another writer at Vent , holds the door open for Eli, taking one of the drinks from him.

Coworkers murmur their thanks as he rounds the table, setting out the drinks and food in their familiar spots, grateful that

everyone has their preferred seating, and even more grateful that he and Gwen drink the same thing, so he can simply offer

his iced chai to her.

“You didn’t get anything?” she asks him.

“I’m cutting caffeine,” he says, digging his iPad out of his bag.

Eli might just be an assistant, but with how forgetful Michael tends to be, and the man’s resistance to taking notes of any

kind, Eli carries more responsibility than he’s compensated for.

Keith walks by, rolling up the sleeves of the button-up that Eli gave him three Christmases ago as he heads to the front of

the conference room, his eyes meeting Eli’s, his gaze sticking as he reaches for his drink where Eli left it.

Even now, a part of Eli’s brain that he desperately wants to ignore is sending signals to his heart, urging his blood to pump

faster, his pulse to leap wildly.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Keith says, slurping from the paper straw that’s already disintegrating in the cup. “Okay! Everyone,

thank you for coming in, let’s go ahead and get into it.”

Eli remembers they’d had three meetings about their relationship with HR. The first one promised that their dating wouldn’t

interfere with the day-to-day at the site, that the two of them were more than capable of doing their jobs, of remaining focused

even though they were working alongside one another.

The second came when Keith got his promotion, and they’d had to sign some paperwork where Keith promised he wouldn’t use his

position on the staff to unfairly reward Eli.

The last assured the exact same thing as the first, the only difference being the promise that their breakup wouldn’t make things harder for either of them. Or, more importantly, the company.

Eli stares down at the blank document on his screen, unable to resist the oral fixation to put the end of his Apple Pencil

between his teeth before he remembers just how expensive the accessory was, even if it is technically the property of the website. He takes notes when he deems it appropriate,

which means that he exits the meeting with just two.

Make sure Michael reads article proposals!

And Read comments for Workplace Drama List story.

Truly gripping journalism.

***

Hours later, Eli has exchanged the mundanity of the meeting for the boredom of reading through one of the listicles that Vent has become known for: bite-size bits of “news” that combine written and visual elements in order to tell “a gripping story.”

At least, that’s how Michael once described them to him. So now, instead of taking notes that Michael won’t read over, Eli

is instead forced to type out: Clint Eastwood says “Do I feel lucky?” not “Do you feel lucky?” He’s speaking from the perspective of the bank robber , in an email to a staff writer for an article titled “Movie Quotes We Use Every Single Day and We Didn’t Even Know It!”

He’s already had to correct the writer on Darth Vader’s famous “No, I am your father” when the writer wrote “Luke, I am your father,” and he’s sure that it won’t be the last misattributed line

of dialogue that he has to look at.

For the time being, though, his growling stomach is enough to force him to save the draft after noting a reminder to send another list of edits to Keith before the end of the day so that he can approve the “buzziness” of the article.

He’s so focused on his com puter screen that the blue light feels like it’s burning his eyes.

The only thing that pulls him away from his work is the container full of lettuce that’s dropped onto his keyboard.

He can’t help the yelp. An instant shot of adrenaline hits his heart before he realizes that Patricia is the Tupperware tosser

in question.

“You scared me,” he says, picking up the plastic container with his lunch and setting it off to the side.

“You shouldn’t be sitting that close to your monitor,” she tells him, grabbing the back of a nearby chair at an empty desk

and wheeling it over toward Eli. “You’ll hurt your eyes.”

“My doctor says my eyesight hasn’t changed,” Eli replies, pushing his thin metal frames further up his nose. Never mind that

his last eye doctor appointment was three years ago, back when he was still on his mother’s insurance.

“Eat, it’s lunchtime.” Patricia picks up her own salad, made fresh that morning in their shared kitchen because—unlike Eli—she

actually wakes up when her alarm goes off, and doesn’t hit the snooze button ten times before rushing to get dressed.

She’s also all too aware that Eli’s breakfast was nothing other than a KIND bar, and knows that it’s long gone by now.

“One second, I need to finish something.” Eli opens up his email, remembering that Michael is waiting for his suggested edits

on another piece. This one about readers’ “Favorite Skin Care Must Haves!” with hyperlinks that just so happen to link to

the product’s Target page, a tiny little disclaimer at the end saying that Vent makes a commission from any items bought through the links.

“Nope.” Patricia leans over, stealing Eli’s wireless mouse and dropping it right into her corduroy tote bag. “It’s lunchtime.”

“Pat...”

“I have an hour to eat with you,” Patricia lectures. “You’ve already wasted five of my sixty minutes. Now eat.”

“Fine,” Eli grumbles, taking the metal fork Patricia supplied and snapping the Tupperware lid off. “It’s not like you’re not going to see me tonight.”

“So?” Patricia spears another piece of lettuce and tomato onto her fork, making sure to add a black olive to the combo. “What

if I want to see you now?”

It was a group assignment in college that brought Patricia and Eli to each other, featuring a third classmate who refused

to do any of the work. Patricia and Eli spent nearly every night together for the following two weeks and became best friends

in the way that only bonding over shared contempt for a person can do.

They decided to move in with each other post-graduation to ease the cost of living in the city, both of them even managing

to get jobs in the same building. Eli at Vent , and Patricia at fashion magazine InVogue , spending her day poring over pieces, predicting trends, and interviewing models and designers alike. It only made sense, what

with how her love of clothing informed nearly every decision she made, how she selected outfits and pieces to write about,

how she pored over three-hundred-page books about specific shades of red and their historical context, using her position

at InVogue to put Black fashion at the forefront of the magazine.

Eli had even gotten the chance to pull her into Vent last year to film a video dissecting the Met Gala looks. A video that still happens to be one of the most viewed on Vent ’s YouTube channel.

And Eli’s name appears nowhere in the description. Not even as a special thanks.

“Oh, come on...” Patricia reaches into her bag, pulls out the small bottle of vinaigrette, and hands it to Eli. “Where’s

that smile?”

“I’m not really feeling it today,” he tells her, pouring the dressing over his lunch.

“Keith?”

Eli doesn’t have to say yes; his silence is enough of an answer. He looks ahead, past his computer monitor, at the glass enclosure that Keith gets to call his office.

“Did he do anything specific?” Patricia asks quietly.

He was nice to me , Eli thinks to himself. Which might just be the most heinous crime of all. “Does he ever have to?”

“Nope,” she says, her mouth turning into a grin. Like they’ve ever needed actual reasons to be haters. “But legitimate reasons help me paint a broader picture.”

“He’s just being... himself,” Eli admits.

“I don’t think I love you anymore.”

He tried to tell himself there were worse seven-word sentences to start your day to.

“You’re pregnant and I’m not the father.”

“The cat was hit by a car.”

“Ayo Edebiri decided to retire from acting.”

He tells himself that he should feel lucky, that not everyone gets to experience that great love of their life, even if this

one didn’t last.

“I’m offering again,” Patricia says. “Let me set you up. One of my friends, she knows this guy who—”

Eli stops her then and there. “Nope. Not interested.”

“You barely tried the apps for a month.”

“And you saw the responses I got,” he reminds her. Patricia and Rose—their other roommate—were sent every single cringe-worthy

response and opener that Eli had been subjected to. From guys looking for the “Pam to my Jim” to dudes with bare-bones profiles

with no profile picture to criminal offenders who thought a hike through the entire length of the Presidio or the Valley Trailhead

was an appropriate first date.

Those didn’t even include the people he matched with who couldn’t be bothered to reply back to him, who left Eli hanging after

the always-awkward introduction message that was apparently enough to turn them off from him completely.