Circuitous By Marissa Glover

        John Floyd CC



Circuitous

   The dental kit drops from the bathroom sink. Floss. Brush. Paste. She debates picking it up. Floss. Brush. Paste. Decides it isn’t worth the risk. Admits she’ll never use them again. Grabs each item with a quick tear of toilet paper, throws it all away. Floss. Brush. Paste. Washes her hands, stares in the mirror, measures the waste. Floss. Brush. Paste. The loss will stay with her all day. 
   Kaycee rushes in and out of the closet, alternating between a quick front-to-back mirror pose and taking one shirt off to try another. And another. Goes with red. Power. It will help with what’s ahead. Goes with gold jewelry instead of silver. Finds a ring that still fits, even after all the drugs, glances at the clock and groans. 
   She remembers her new security camera app means she won’t have to turn around halfway through the neighborhood to go back and check that she closed the garage. She sighs in semi-relief; maybe she will get to work on time after all. Remembers the dental kit, skips breakfast, takes her morning meds with a slosh of bottled water, and climbs in the car. 
   Today she will ask her boss for a raise, while wearing red, while paying attention to her breathing, while delivering the script she practiced for a week. At each stoplight, she checks the mirror: Base. Powder. Blush. Mascara. Gloss. Wraps herself in a hug and taps her shoulders: One-two, one. One-two, one. One-two, one. Checks again: Base. Powder. Blush. Mascara. Gloss. 
   As she sits in the reception area, waiting for her boss to arrive, she repeats the new mantra she recently learned, Act like the person you want to be. Yes, she will act confident. She will act smart, and brave. Yes, she will act like her boss being late doesn’t bother her. She will assume her boss had an important emergency to handle, but then her brain sees blood and broken bones and panics that her boss has been in a car accident on the way to this morning’s meeting. It’s probably her fault, for scheduling the interview first thing. Traffic is always bad this early in the morning. 
   The self-doubt doubles on itself, and she suddenly remembers something from twenty years ago. Her first boss told her, after a denied raise request, “Women should wear pastel pink when asking their boss for anything because the soft color is feminine and makes men more likely to say yes.” That was the boss who wanted to marry her—after his wife left him—the man who said he felt called to help her reach her potential. But Tiger Woods wears red on Sundays, and he’s won more majors than anyone besides Nicklaus. Tiger still wears red even after his wife left him for cheating with all those hookers. Plus, Kaycee’s current boss is a woman and never wears pink. 
   Kaycee is seeing red when her boss pushes past, drive-thru coffee in hand, but the wind from the movement reminds Kaycee to breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. She’s almost cool when she takes a seat in the office. 
   “Are you sure you want to interview for this new position? It’s a promotion that will pay more, yes, but it also carries several duties more than what you’re currently responsible for and requires about ten additional hours of work each week.”
   Kaycee knows what the position entails. She read the job description about 50 times. A day. For two weeks since it was first posted. Once she decided to go for it, she applied online, where internal applicants were expected to complete paperwork and officially signal their intentions. Then she agreed to this meeting. She’d written and rehearsed her interview script the next week. Three weeks. Three weeks she had been thinking about the position and the requirements and the raise. She showed up for the meeting. On time. Wearing red. 
   Her boss waits for an answer, but Kaycee isn’t sure what to say. The question is unexpected. Kaycee’s script doesn’t anticipate the meeting starting this way. The self-doubt returns, settling in her gut. The burn travels quickly from stomach through esophagus, the taste of bile in her mouth. Is her boss implying that Kaycee isn’t qualified? That regardless of her track record, someone else is already tapped for the job? That Kaycee shouldn’t have worn red? That Tiger Woods was a cheater—and once a cheater, always a cheater? Kaycee suddenly hears her dad telling his kids, “Winners never cheat, and cheaters never win.”
   Kaycee looks up from her lap, where she’s been secretly driving her right thumbnail into each soft pink fingertip and counting: one, two, three, four. One. Two. Three. Four. The pain from the small crescent moons reminds her to breathe, stunts the panic, and keeps the bile from becoming vomit. Her boss is still waiting for an answer, smiling a wide toothy grin like the question was funny. Kaycee notices a speck of pepper stuck between the top left incisor and canine. 
   Floss. Brush. Paste. The morning’s loss returns. Base. Powder. Blush. Mascara. Gloss. One-two, one. One-two, one. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Act like the person you want to be.
   “Actually, no, I don’t want to interview for the new position. That’s not why I’m here today. Do you like my shirt? It’s red. Tiger Woods wears red on Sundays. He’s a golfer. He’s really good. Wins more than almost anyone. And even though his wife left him, his son—he’s also a really good golfer—wears red now too. His dad caddies for him sometimes.”
   Kaycee smiles, points to her own teeth, says, “You’ve got something stuck. I’d offer you some floss, but I don’t have any.”
  Her boss stares at her, a stare Kaycee sees in the faces of anyone she dares notice. Before she can ask any more questions, Kaycee finishes, “I quit. That’s what I’m here to say—to do—to tell you. I quit.”
   Kaycee beats herself up as she boxes her office; she should have followed the script. What will I do now? She rushes to the bathroom, alternating between a quick front-to-back mirror pose. Admires the red shirt, the gold ring that still fits. What will I do now? She will breathe, and tap, and take her meds. 
   Arriving home, Kaycee smiles at the closed garage. She’s remembering more these days. Fewer reasons to turn around; fewer sockets and sinks to check. But she forgets what her therapist warned about catastrophizing. Something about thought distortions and not trying to predict the future. She will ask about it at her next appointment. Or maybe she will call tomorrow, explain the job situation.  
   When the alarm clock rings, Kaycee is slow to wake. Three snoozes later, she finally makes it out of bed and feels her way to the bathroom. Fumbling in the dark, she knocks the dental kit off the bathroom sink. Debates picking it up. Decides it isn’t worth the risk. Grabs each item with a quick tear of toilet paper, throws it all away. Washes her hands, stares in the mirror, measures the waste. The loss will stay with her all day. 

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Marissa Glover lives in Florida, where she’s busy sweating and swatting bugs. Her fiction has been published in Adelaide Magazine, The Cabinet of Heed, and After the Pause. Marissa’s debut poetry collection, Let Go of the Hands You Hold, was released by Mercer University Press in 2021. Box Office Gospel will be published by Mercer in 2023. You can follow Marissa on Twitter and Instagram at _MarissaGlover_.

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