Public Relations

Chapter 3: Brett

"Hey," she says breathlessly, dropping the bag onto the floor with a thunk. I spare it a glance, then return to her.

"Hey."

"What's the emergency?"

"Yeah, I'm good. How are you?"

Mia walks around me and into the kitchen, barely pausing to ask me, "Can I use the espresso?" before the machine is running. I seat myself at a stool across from her, head cocked to one side as I watch her curiously.

The machine buzzes and whirrs, and, once she's satisfied with its ability to make her drink unsupervised, she turns back to me. I raise my eyebrows slightly, expectantly.

She raises hers in response. "Oh, what? You want formalities? Brett, how was your day?"

"It's getting better every minute."

Mia folds her arms across her chest, then seems to rethink herself. She takes a deep inhale and loosens her shoulders, cracks her neck from side to side. "My apologies. It's been a long day."

"Day?"

"And night."

I blink at her.

"And week, and month. Maybe year, but I had a weekend two months ago where I didn't work, so things are improving."

My bottom lip juts out slightly as if to ponder this. I narrow my eyes. "One weekend two months ago?"

She waves vaguely. "The grind, or whatever."

Behind her, the espresso machine chirps once to signal that it's finished. A small mug levitates into her hands, then she levitates with it. I'm silent as she doctors the drink to her liking, her familiarity with my kitchen slightly alarming. We've hosted a few meetings here, most of which she arrived to before I'd even woken, but I wasn't aware of how attuned to the inner workings of my fridge she was.

Her first sip looks like a religious experience. "Oh, my word. I've been on my last mile for, like, eighty miles."

"How was your day, Mia? Other than long?"

This seems to catch her by surprise, this lame attempt at conversation. I think, momentarily and selfishly, that I want her aura in this kitchen forever, that I could bottle her up and spritz her in the corners of this house to make it a bit more interesting. A bit more like a place I want to be.

"My day?" Another sip. "I worked a 9-5 shift in a cubicle. I answered two hundred emails and deleted two hundred more. I didn't have time for lunch, so I ate a sandwich at my desk and another in my car. I had dinner plans that I had to cancel to be here, but now I'm here. And at least there's this espresso, my one, sweet salvation."

"Lord."

We're quiet. She's still leaning with her back against the counter, her body faced in my direction but she's not quite in front of me. I drag my fingers across the top of the granite, using the solid coolness to ground me.

"What did you need?" Mia asks, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind one heavily pierced ear.

What did I need?

How embarrassing it'll be to confess that I'm just a little lonely guy, just a pathetic man seeking the company of his PR team.

"I am worried about handling questions about this event in the future."

Dude, what?

Mia eyes me skeptically. "You... are worried about your interviews?"

"It just isn't something I'm used to - being prim and proper, or whatever. I'm not sure what to say, and I'm not sure I care enough to say something that you'd like." I fold my fingers into themselves. "So let's just establish what you'd want me to say."