Yellow orchids

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Editorial assistant is steaming mad. Three of us, women, are in the hallway listening to her. Two men pass by at different points and say, “I smell a revolution brewing.” The first man looks like he wants to lead us; the second looks scared.

*

Editorial assistant starts crying through her rant. Her boss is impossible. Her boss takes credit for all the work she does. Her boss doesn’t introduce her to their authors. Her boss will never help promote her. Her boss demeans her publicly with silly admonishments.

I received one such silly admonishment from this editor earlier today, and forwarded it to editorial assistant: “Is this really what you have to deal with?”

“Yes,” she e-mailed back, “only every minute of every day and 100x worse.”

*

I head out to the deli. Their selection of flowers is paltry. I’m hoping for something with a bright color, but simple too.

I don’t know my flowers, but I do know how a cheer-up bouquet should look.

Inside the deli I find clusters of twirly flowers. The bouquets come in yellow or pink. I pick yellow and ask the guy behind the counter for the price.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

I have only fourteen on me, so I return the bouquet to its bin and go back to the selection of flowers facing the street. Finally I pick out four supple, sexily curving bulbs, three dollars each. Inside, I place the tiny bunch on the counter.

The guy points to the yellow bouquet I’d set aside and says, “Okay, twenty.”

“Thank you, but I only have fourteen. I could, of course, pay you back later—but I’m sure you don’t like doing that . . .”

“Pay later? Sure.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Give me the fourteen.”

*

Back upstairs, the editorial assistant stops by my office. I tell her to close her eyes. I place the bouquet in her hands, and I say, “A girl should never cry on a Friday.”

She starts crying again.

She hugs me three times.

*

The past couple of weeks have felt as though I’ve had a glorious little yellow bouquet tucked into my pocket.

But now I’m feeling the need for the real thing. I, too, am needing a good cheer.

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Filed under NYC, conversations, day job, feeling blue, what a weirdo