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"I mean, she swore she had the numbers right but I have a fucking Master's in this shit," Andrea ranted, texting away on her phone.
"What did you do?" Crissle asked, continuing to sew hair on Andrea's head. She needed her hair done, and since they were basically almost close friends -- and Crissle had a license in cosmetology -- who better to do it than her?
"Of course I threatened her, Crissle," Andrea scoffed, "told her if she didn't have it right, Zayn would fire her. You know he would."
"That man does not play when it comes to money or anything with numerical value."
"Right! So she let me check over it and guess who was wrong."
"Who?" she deadpanned, already knowing the answer.
"Her!"
"Stop moving before I accidentally stab your head," she laughed, making her sit still.
"Like, son, I love math, and I know my shit. She just started since that Peter nigga got himself fired."
Crissle laughed at this. "Well, the lady is like fifty something and she can barely see."
"How do you know?"
"Because--" her cell phone started to ring and she quickly picked it up to answer.
"Ms. Sinclair," Zayn breathed through the phone, "do you know where I put the files on the vegan company?"
"You told me to keep them," she replied, finishing Andrea's hair and cutting off any loose threads, "do you need them?"
"Yeah, they're in your cubicle?"
"Top drawer on the left. It's a purple folder."
She heard rummaging and shuffling on the other line and waited for him to answer.
"What are you even doing?" he asked.
"Andrea's hair."
"During lunch break?"
"Yeah? S'like an hourm And I'm almost done."
"Found it," he said, slamming one of her drawers shut, "and it's thirty minutes."
"Don't slam my shit."
He slammed another one.
"Wow, mature, right?"
"As always. Anyway, when you come back, I need your opinion on something. Meet me on the fifth floor."
"Alright," she hung up and set her phone down.
"What did he want?" Andrea asked.
"Some contracts from my desk. Do you want this styled?"
"Nah, I think I'll keep it straight for right now," she looked in the mirror and ran her fingers through her new hair, "it's perfect. Thank you, Cris."
"No problem. All I ask is that you take me out to eat."
"Really? That's all?"
"Yeah," she shrugged, "you're my friend, Drea. And I can't have my friends looking like trash."
"I did not look like--"
"That's where you're wrong," she laughed, "when I first saw you I wanted to cut your hair off because it was terrible."
Andrea gasped, putting a hand on her chest, "well."
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"What is this?"
"My next collection," he explained, fixing the beanie on his head. He wore sweats and a t-shirt, something...not expected of him.
She scanned his outfit and snorted. "Why'd you change?"
"Had to, it's a process," he picked up a piece of fabric and held it up to the mannequin's clothes, "a creative process, yeah?"
"I guess."
He sighed. "Okay, when you...when you do hair or whatever, do you feel more comfortable, or do you feel you do a better job, when you're dressed up? Honestly."
She thought about it, closing the room and watching him watch her. "I mean, no."
"So you feel you can do better without the restricting clothes?"
"Yeah."
"Surprise. Me, too."
Crissle bit back a smile. "I get it, I get it. Sorry."
"S'all good," he sat in a chair and stared at the mannequins, "you didn't expect me to wear this, or actually participate in my own work--"
"No, I expected the second one kind of--"
"What does that mean?"
"Like," she huffed, "you input your ideas but I didn't think you actually made your clothes. Makes sense?"
"Yeah, I got you," he chuckled, "my mom taught me how to make clothes, yeah? It was fun and I always got teased for it."
"I wish I knew how to sew."
"But...you did Andrea's--"
"That's a sew in, like, simple stuff," she raised an eyebrow at him, "how'd you know what that was?"
"I've seen some things," he clarified with a smile, "anyway, what do you think? Coral Rose or Watermelon?"
"They look the fucking same."
"How?" he questioned, "one is obviously more pink than anything."
"Well, Zayn," Crissle crouched down on the floor and looked at all the pinks, "you're the designer."
"But I need an opinion," he said, "I have to send the colors and the outfit off by next week for a New York fashion show."
"Um," she stood, taking the colors from his hands and examining them, "they seriously look the same," she muttered under her breath.
"Crissle--"
"Watermelon."
"Really?" he scrunched his nose, "you think watermelon is--"
"Fucking Coral Rose, then, Zayn," she playfully threw the swatches at him, "they're the same."
"No, they're not," he laughed.
"What is this for anyway?"
"A sweater."
"A fucking sweater," she looked around the room and frowned, "usually, fashion show clothes aren't really...fashion. Your clothes are kinda normal."
"Because it's my event," he stood, walking over to another mannequin and staring at it, "I'm giving other young artists that actually have fashion sense a chance."
"How nice of you," she smiled, truly surprised he would do something like that.
"I just thought of it late last year, so now it's gonna be a yearly thing, I think," he bit his lip, "yeah, hope it's fun. And guess who's coming with me?"
"Who?"
"You."
"Me."
"You."
"No."
"That's what assistants do," he explained, "they go with me to my events and my business trips. If it's business, no matter what, personal assistants go with their bosses. Speaking of which," he lead her out of the room and to the elevator, "you're coming with me next week."
"To what?"
"An event in Chicago," the doors opened and they walked out, past the employees who obviously hadn't seen Zayn outside his work attire, "they want to make a deal with me and I need my assistant," he looked back at her, "you, to pull up the numbers."
"Okay," she said, "any particular numbers?" He opened his office door and closed it behind them both.
"I emailed you a list," he sat in his chair and opened his laptop, "that and...it's for the weekend, so pack clothes -- enough -- because it's also supposed to snow. Book a hotel, one room, one bed."
"Alright," she didn't miss the way his mouth turned up when he explained their room situation. She was going to share a bed with this man. "Anything else?"
"I'll get back to you, but," he scanned his computer again, "that's it for now. Wait. There's a file, maybe in your cubicle, about Chicago and business expansion. I need that."
"Okay."
"That's all."
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hello, peoples
goodbye, peoples xx