Moira’s been working in insurance for two weeks, but she’s already learned the basics of accident, death, and disability as well as how to avoid Billie every moment from nine to five. Billie still hasn’t seen Moira’s face; Moira has made sure of that. As an insurance agent, Billie sits in the northwestern area of the cubicles. At ten, she’ll make herself a blueberry bagel with cream cheese. She takes her lunch at one, usually at her desk. She eats sandwiches, thin ones. She’ll leave twenty minutes after five, so Moira leaves at half after.
Moira tries not to think about Billie. The first week Trevor piles her with bursting binders of training materials, and that helps. She takes calls and speaks so quietly the customers ask her to repeat herself. She says everything three times. Linda and Shirley gossip over her all day, and it’s clear Trevor put Moira in between to separate them. She’s made slight nudges towards friendship with the other, younger customer service reps: Leah, Nathan, Tricia. She makes note of what they wear to the office, who likes to use the coffee maker first, which one will appreciate a witty remark against Trevor. It’s slow progress; no one’s more cliquey than someone paid to talk to other humans. The firm’s busy with flooding claims, but Trevor says the wildfire claims will start in a couple weeks.
It’s rained every day since Moira’s first day of work, but she still skirts around the puddles. When she gets home each night, she watches Parent Trap and My Best Friend’s Wedding in her dingy blue apartment. She eats spoonfuls and spoonfuls of canned peaches. She showers and lets the water touch her.
Moira likes to take a detour on the worn carpet tracks from the bathroom to inch past Billie’s cubicle. She overhears Billie’s conversations, an easy enough thing to do when you’re trying to avoid someone. She hears Billie’s loud sarcasm when admin messes up one of her policy renewals, her bluster to her clients. “Best policy, hands down,” Billie says. “Nothing’s sure, you know. Better to be on the safe side, and that’s with me. Those idiots down at State Farm haven’t got a clue.” Once, when Moira’s taking the long way back from making tea, she hears a quiet “Thanks, Dad.” Moira doesn’t notice the way her tea becomes glassy and dark. She doesn’t see the ripples, not with any of the drinks she brings past.
On the next Tuesday, Moira scrounges through the breakroom’s cupboards with Leah. It’s half past four, when Billie’s often roaming near customer service, so this is the safest place. As she searches, Moira concludes the bagels are gone and so are the breakfast bars. “Someone should do a muffin run,” says Moira. Someone means her and Leah, a hopeful first step for regular coffee dates. “Know any good bakeries near here?”
“Chelsey’s on Seventh is cute,” Leah says as she pours water into the coffee maker. “Big chocolate chunk muffins. Nathan and I go all the time.”
Moira thinks of mentioning that the workday’s almost over, but she and Leah aren’t there yet. Instead she turns to the window and watches the clouds spit out over the streets.
“Oh, hey Billie,” says Leah.
Moira’s limbs stiffen. She listens as Leah asks a question about policy renewals. Billie’s answers are bored and dismissive, and Moira starts to relax until Leah says, “Moira, you’ve met Billie, right?”
Slowly, Moira turns around. Billie’s mouth is hard, and her eyes are impatient, but when they meet Moira’s, something inside sparks. A muscle in her cheek twitches.
Then the coffee maker explodes.
Moira tries not to think about Billie. The first week Trevor piles her with bursting binders of training materials, and that helps. She takes calls and speaks so quietly the customers ask her to repeat herself. She says everything three times. Linda and Shirley gossip over her all day, and it’s clear Trevor put Moira in between to separate them. She’s made slight nudges towards friendship with the other, younger customer service reps: Leah, Nathan, Tricia. She makes note of what they wear to the office, who likes to use the coffee maker first, which one will appreciate a witty remark against Trevor. It’s slow progress; no one’s more cliquey than someone paid to talk to other humans. The firm’s busy with flooding claims, but Trevor says the wildfire claims will start in a couple weeks.
It’s rained every day since Moira’s first day of work, but she still skirts around the puddles. When she gets home each night, she watches Parent Trap and My Best Friend’s Wedding in her dingy blue apartment. She eats spoonfuls and spoonfuls of canned peaches. She showers and lets the water touch her.
Moira likes to take a detour on the worn carpet tracks from the bathroom to inch past Billie’s cubicle. She overhears Billie’s conversations, an easy enough thing to do when you’re trying to avoid someone. She hears Billie’s loud sarcasm when admin messes up one of her policy renewals, her bluster to her clients. “Best policy, hands down,” Billie says. “Nothing’s sure, you know. Better to be on the safe side, and that’s with me. Those idiots down at State Farm haven’t got a clue.” Once, when Moira’s taking the long way back from making tea, she hears a quiet “Thanks, Dad.” Moira doesn’t notice the way her tea becomes glassy and dark. She doesn’t see the ripples, not with any of the drinks she brings past.
On the next Tuesday, Moira scrounges through the breakroom’s cupboards with Leah. It’s half past four, when Billie’s often roaming near customer service, so this is the safest place. As she searches, Moira concludes the bagels are gone and so are the breakfast bars. “Someone should do a muffin run,” says Moira. Someone means her and Leah, a hopeful first step for regular coffee dates. “Know any good bakeries near here?”
“Chelsey’s on Seventh is cute,” Leah says as she pours water into the coffee maker. “Big chocolate chunk muffins. Nathan and I go all the time.”
Moira thinks of mentioning that the workday’s almost over, but she and Leah aren’t there yet. Instead she turns to the window and watches the clouds spit out over the streets.
“Oh, hey Billie,” says Leah.
Moira’s limbs stiffen. She listens as Leah asks a question about policy renewals. Billie’s answers are bored and dismissive, and Moira starts to relax until Leah says, “Moira, you’ve met Billie, right?”
Slowly, Moira turns around. Billie’s mouth is hard, and her eyes are impatient, but when they meet Moira’s, something inside sparks. A muscle in her cheek twitches.
Then the coffee maker explodes.
