Thank you all for your time and interest in this idea that I'm finally expanding! It's definitely becoming the slowest of slow burns but...soon. :)
Jettsetter17, for your kind words this one is for you.
Her building wasn't new nor was it old enough to be romantic, but it had large windows with wide wooden sills. As soon as she'd moved in Mel had shoved a couch into the brightest corner where two of the windows touched and it was there, four years later, that she had built a blanket nest and spent the weekend. Every now and again she'd unwrapped herself long enough to do something essential. For much of Saturday morning she had managed to convince herself that she was merely relaxing, but before long it felt correct to describe the behavior as wallowing in self pity and she didn't fight the thought. When you relaxed you were expected to do yoga, splurge on an expensive pastry, go out and enjoy a Saturday like an unattached professional woman with a disposable income. Wallowing was meals of toast and wine, napping, and reality shows as a balm to soothe her wounded ego. She preferred the latter.
The sun had graciously stuck around and now warmed her shoulders. She looked away from the tv and tipped her head back onto the armrest; as the bright light danced behind her closed eyes something tickled her elbow. A heartleaf philodendron, philodendron hederaceum, trailed a long tendril across her skin. It had flourished in this corner and she had put several push pins up along the window to give it space to twist and creep. Mel rubbed a leaf between her fingers affectionately and glanced at the computer in her lap. The web browser had three open tabs with three different image searches. She scrolled through the first one: medical masks. Lots of blue, white, that antiseptic green/gray seemingly reserved for hospitals, lots of mention of the words like infection, prevention, and fluid. She grimaced, hesitated, and clicked through the second tab. Gas masks. The colors were more promising but these were too big and not nearly as strange as the one that lingered ominously in her memory. She sipped her glass of wallowing wine and twirled the philodendron vine around her finger. Why would someone have been wearing a gas mask at that stupid party, anyway? On the cab ride home she had decided the massive man must've been security of some kind but as time dragged on she felt less sure. Mel remembered his eyes, the clear and lethal cut of them as they raked over her tears before she could hide them; the ever so slight crinkle at the corners that had maybe been a smile. Half-heartedly she scrolled through the third tab, breathing masks, but she found she didn't really want to think about the masked man any longer. Security was the most logical explanation.
Mel moved the computer to the coffee table and untangled herself from the blankets. Her legs were stiff with disuse as she crossed to the kitchen with her empty glass. The fridge was dismally bare: half a pack of sliced cheese, a bell pepper that had seen better days, a nearly empty bottle of white wine. Tipping the rest into her glass, she took a sip as she stared vacantly at the collection of useless condiments on the shelves. The oven clock read 3:28pm. She hesitated, looking between the blanket nest on the couch and the front door. Beside the coat closet, dusty with neglect, sat a keyboard. The words unappreciated brainiac slithered through her mind causing her stomach to clench unpleasantly. She slammed the fridge closed and dug around the drawers and cabinets. A televised argument escalated and squawked out of the tv as she shuffled back to the couch with her supplies and she turned up the volume to fill the empty space with sound as she worked.
When the clock ticked over to 4:00pm Mel sat back into her sunny corner. Seven neat little jars of water glinted on the wide window sill, each with a propagated philodendron sprout. Their mother, now with shorter and much tidier tendrils, brushed the top of her hair with a heart-shaped leaf. She could go to the store later, maybe tomorrow. Mel burrowed into the blankets and smiled at little baby plants; they would need names.
Julius revealed in a ray of sunshine, the only thing keeping her sane as Monday morning slogged towards noon. When she arrived at the office an email was waiting in her inbox shifting half the team onto a pharmaceutical project. A cosmetic pharmaceutical project, nonetheless, that has been given top priority in light of a looming shareholders meeting in June. After a moment of dull irritation she had sent a casual email in perfect corporatese detailing the skill set for which she was hired, a skill set that benefited her current assignment on alternative energy. Her department head had replied two hours later in equally fluid corporatese that Wayne Chemical felt confident that her chemistry background would translate appropriately to pharmaceutical projects. She would be happy to write Mel a recommendation should a position at Wayne Energy become vacant. Mel read the response twice, grabbed her coat, and went to an early lunch.
For some hateful reason she purchased a prepacked salad. It sat untouched beside her on the park bench as she flicked through LinkedIn, through the messages from recruiters that she'd let stack up, scrolling restlessly through all of the botany related-actually botany related- jobs in the country. Internship, internship, assistant that, assistant this, internship. She found something promising in Seattle; it was definitely more horticulture than botany but at a large corporation with a decent salary. She googled apartments in Seattle and blanched at sky high rental costs. Jesus, it made Gotham look affordable. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it, dropping it to her side and sighing heavily through her nose.
Every ingredient in the stupid salad was individually wrapped in plastic which made it both cumbersome and amazingly wasteful. As she assembled it a small pile of trash built up beside her, adding guilt to her ever increasing emotional tangle. Holy fuck, it was only Monday. The bench was surrounded by bunches of buttery daffodils, their cheery faces turned up towards the sun. She looked in the same direction but couldn't match their attitude. She scowled at the bright little flowers; narcissus pseudonarcissus, their symbolism was renewal and rebirth. She couldn't help but to feel a little betrayed by their significance as her lunch break ticked away. Her mother always called them easter lilies, and neither her daughter's botany doctorate nor any power in heaven or earth would convince her that they were not truly lilies. But they were not lilies; they were mild and ornamental little bulbs. Almost as soon as she had the thought Mel regretted it. She took a bite of salad and watched as the yellow petals rustled in the breeze. It wasn't their fault that they were what they were. It was the best that any living thing could do, really, being exactly what they were designed to be. How could she fault them for not being lilies, for not being more?
The phone buzzed again. She tore her gaze away from the daffodils and checked it absently. There were three new emails in her inbox.
May 2, 11:41am - 25% off flats, mules, and sandals, THIS WEEK ONLY! (;
May 2, 11:59am - LinkedIn: Gina R. (CA Invasive Plant Council) has sent you a message
May 2, 12:07pm - Meeting Invitation: Coffee and clean energy
The third was a notification from the damn Wayne Enterprises messaging platform. Mel speared a forkful of lettuce and clicked the message open.
Meeting invitation to: Mel Isley (m-isley)
Coffee and clean energy
(view on WE calendar)
Date: Thurs, May 5th
Time: 3:00 - 4:00pm
Location: La Marzocco Cafe
Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth as she read and then reread the sender.
Event creator: Miranda Tate (m-tate)
Mel sat frozen for a moment. What the fuck. Miranda Tate, like, Miranda Tate, Miranda Tate? Impact investor, Wayne Enterprises board member, and philanthropic mind behind the ill-fated energy project that had shit all over her life? She googled the name just to be certain, scrolling through two pages of search results while the invitation sat unanswered and simmering a hole through her brain. Why did Miranda Tate want to meet with her? And why now, three long miserable years after the project had come to a screeching halt? Three years after she'd been reassigned and left to rot in research. She clicked on an article from Gotham Magazine; it was topped with a photo of a dark haired woman sitting beneath the wide leaves of a Bird of Paradise palm, her posture and smile both casual and confident. Mel ignored the text of the article- glowing praise, she was sure- and stared at the picture, looking for something. What was she looking for? She would never be able to find it if she didn't know what it was. Photo Miranda just smiled coyly back. Mel shoved her phone into her coat pocket and headed back to the office while the hole continued to burn through her skull and down her spine.
She was so distracted when she returned that it took her a moment to realize that something had appeared on her desk in her absence. Her mouth hardened then twitched at the corner: an elaborate arrangement of roses, two dozen at least, sat garishly in Julius's sun beam. A small twinge of her usual archness flared to life as she plucked the card from its nest; as her fingers brushed the red petals she could practically feel the silica or whatever god awful product that has been used to preserve their freshness. The flare went back out.
When is red lipstick no longer red lipstick?
The burning hole landed in her stomach gracelessly.
When it -truly- becomes a young lady.
No more boring parties, cross my heart.
Ed
On another day, in another lifetime, she might've rolled her eyes and put up a front of being miffed. Not today, not now, not with a hole burning and clenching itself in her guts. Today was a different kind of day. Almost without thinking she plopped into her seat, pulled up Miranda Tate's meeting invitation and accepted. Her finger clicked the button and the burning in her belly took on a new life. It burned ever still, burned hot and bright, but it no longer clenched and ached. It felt warm. It felt alive. She leaned back and gazed at the waxed flowers that had once also been alive, that were now no more than an embalmed body on a mortuary slab. Mel pushed them aside and settled Julius back in the sun. His striped leaves were soft and smooth and clean and lovely. It occurred to her that she adored the little plant and she smiled crookedly at the odd thought.
When she returned home that evening, bottle of wine in her bag, the first thing she did was gather all of her lipsticks and toss them into the dumpster.
La Marzocco was a small coffee shop with furnishings meant to be both fashionable and laid back. White subway tile lined the walls and the perfectly constructed espresso drinks were served on a wide counter made of elegantly stained cherry. In the southeast corner there sat a tall fiddle leaf fig; the light was only decent but the soil looked tended and Mel watched as the bespectacled young man behind the counter stepped out to gently run a damp cloth over the leaves. She approved.
She had been unsure-had agonized, if she was honest- about many details of the meeting all week. Silly things, like whether she should arrive early, right on time, or a couple minutes late. Would one make her look more professional, more desperate, more important? In the end she'd walked in the door at two minutes before 3pm and found Miranda Tate standing at the register. In person Mel discovered immediately that this woman was not only extraordinarily gorgeous but extraordinarily intimidating even though she was clearly trying to be friendly. She paid for their coffee without allowing a moment's protest, mentioning offhandedly that she recognized Mel from her company profile picture and commenting on the long awaited arrival of the spring weather.
"Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me," Miranda added, abruptly changing the subject with a smile, "I know how busy you must be."
"Oh, of course," Mel fumbled, not having expected the stream of conversation to require her input just yet, "I'm happy to help if I can."
Their coffee landed on the bar in front of them in neat little cups with matching saucers and latte art. They made their way across the cafe and settled at a table by the window.
"That's so good to hear. Clean energy is a passion of mine."
"Yeah, it's great."
Ugh, what an awkward response. Miranda stirred the delicate foam on her cappuccino with an equally delicate spoon, looking like an image from parisian Pinterest. Mel crossed her legs and matched her demeanor as best she could, dismayed to realize how nervous she really was. She never did this sort of thing, sitting in coffee shops with friends and colleagues, especially not with other women. She knew how to attend meetings in the office, knew how to flirt and date, knew how to send a killer email. Here in this posh cafe with this posh woman who was unquestionably her superior she was at a loss. Miranda gazed at her evenly over the brim of her cup.
"I'd love to hear about your time working on the fusion project."
And, with another one of her disarming conversational twists, there it was. The topic Mel had prepared for, had readied questions and answers for, dumped straight into her lap wrapped in the guise of politeness. Mel fiddled with her own spoon.
"Right."
It was amazing to her that after three years her chest could still ache with bitterness. Lack of closure? she wondered. Or maybe sitting across the table from a responsible party?
"It was such a great opportunity, and a really great learning experience."
Jesus fucking Christ had she used the word great nine hundred times already? She glanced at the floor and away just as quickly. The pattern in the tiles was made of hundreds and thousands of tiny black and white hexagons. Miranda eyed her mildly, and Mel had the sense that she was being carefully analyzed.
She was fucking smart as hell, wasn't even slightly drunk, and didn't owe this woman anything.
Mel tucked the little spoon onto the saucer.
"What exactly did you want to know?"
She was fucking smart as hell, wasn't even slight drunk, didn't own this woman anything, and now the ball was out of her court. Miranda shrugged and leaned an elbow onto the table, the very essence of easiness.
"I had a good deal to do with the financial side, cost analysis and progress reports, sort of the broad strokes of the thing. But in all honesty I had very little involvement with the real day to day ...stuff."
She wrinkled her nose sweetly when she said the word stuff, and Mel felt a sudden spark of comprehension. She knew that move; she'd used that move herself, just like when she flicked her hair and arranged her hand on a man's arm just so. It was odd, almost, to see the same tactics on another face but it was even stranger that she felt her nerves diminish. Miranda's large blue eyes twinkled as she sipped her coffee.
"And here I am," Miranda went on, "three years later with nothing to show and no idea where to start to begin again."
"I'm not sure I'm the best person-"
"Perhaps," her tone was even, "and I say this with all of the very best intention and respect, you might let me decide that for myself?"
Mel wondered idly if having an accent made people respond more positively to you. She couldn't place Miranda's and it added such a layer of sophistication and mystery to her words and Mel imagined it was rare that she did not get her way. With a clever twist of conversation and a smile the Eds of the business world, the John Daggetts, the Philip fucking Stryvers probably played right into her hands. She laced her fingers on the tabletop and felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Game respected game.
She was fucking smart as hell, not even slightly drunk, didn't owe this woman anything...but was more than happy to speak the truth if that's what she wanted.
"May I level with you, Ms. Tate?"
"Of course."
"I was the botanist brought in on what was essentially a nuclear physics project. Higher ups," Mel heard the edge seep into her voice, "usually do that to make sure there is always an odd person out to present a different point of view. So, while I was present and as involved as anyone one else, my role was more to keep the physicists thinking in tangible terms, to keep the engineers thinking in abstract terms, to keep the chemists from locking themselves in the lab all day long, and to throw in the odd notion about how to lower carbon emissions. A clean energy project where the only botanist is a babysitter is not a project about sustainability, it's just greenwashing fodder for Gotham Magazine."
She sat back heavily in her seat and waited. Mel had anticipated discussing the project, had anticipated answering basic questions about renewable energy. She hadn't planned this turn of conversation but Miranda asked for honesty and she had nearly eight years of brutal honesty simmering. Even before Wayne had pulled the plug the process had been mismanaged and expensive, and when it fell apart because a scientist half the world away published a paper the entire endeavor was viewed as a failure and a joke.
Miranda sat quite still for a moment after Mel's outburst. Mel supposed she had a right to feel surprised or offended and it might mean that she would spend the rest of her woefully uninteresting life stuck on pharmaceutical projects, but she didn't care. The bright burning hole still seethed in her belly but it was lighter now and its warmth was calming.
"That was a gross misuse of talent, especially considering the content of your dissertation."
The burning hole flickered, just for a second. She knew about Mel's dissertation?
Miranda fanned her fingers out on the table and grinned ruefully.
"I haven't read beyond the abstract, if I'm honest." She shrugged once more. "You may not be a physicist but a botanist with your understanding of conservation and chemical ecology ought to have been considered, well, a true beacon on a project like this."
Miranda laughed a pretty tinkling little laugh, her expression pleasantly bemused as if any alternative view was silly. Mel watched her and felt something like a lightness filling her ribs and the hole expanded and blazed.
A beacon. No, a true beacon.
She was used to flattery: being more than overqualified for her job, generous on the eyes, and much too smart to set anyone's expectations of her to a level she could not exceed, it was heaped onto her daily. There was flattery in Miranda's words, but there was so much more. Acknowledgement. Approval. Almost an apology. Mel sipped her coffee to buy herself a moment.
"Tell me, Dr. Isley," Miranda toyed with the little spoon, "could you see yourself doing it all again? If the circumstances were right."
Such a simple sentence yet it knocked the air out of Mel's lungs.
"Working in clean energy?"
"Clean energy, yes, but more specifically continuing the work we've already begun."
Miranda wrinkled her nose again and winked.
"I'm biased, you see."
She smiled the same smile from the Gotham Magazine article, that coy quirk of her mouth. Mel studied her and saw something very different behind the sparkle in her dark blue eyes. Something like intelligence, something focused and precise and a little cautious. It impressed her; they were perhaps matched in their toolbox but, holy hell, this woman had something that Mel did not. Something clear and driven and...and...she didn't know exactly what it was. Mel wanted some for herself. Meeting Miranda's gaze, she mirrored her smile.
"If the circumstances were right."