By Marianna Faynshteyn
The Director never again wore the red blouse she wore the day she fired the Account Manager. She put it on thinking about what that woman leading the assertiveness workshop said: “Red is a confrontational color, you should wear it for the right setting, like asking for a raise.” Well, firing someone felt like the kind of occasion for a confrontational color. But when The Director walked out the door, she started to doubt the choice, thinking that maybe she should have gone for something, something less. But oh well, she was already late, and red looked good on her, maybe even better than any other color. And anyways doubt always creeps in as soon as you leave your house, especially at the exact moment the lock of the door clicks behind you.
The Account Manager had started nine months ago, but two months in, it felt like he had always been there, making jokes with the receptionists and exchanging recipes with the HR ladies on the floor like he was everyone’s cousin. With The Director too, he was familiar. The two of them were surprised at how many common interests they had—both bad swimmers with childhood traumas and a love of old Italian movies. He would make the clicking noise with his mouth the way Marcello Mastroianni did in Divorce Italian Style when he walked by her desk, and she would smile until she blushed. No one suspected anything was up, and nothing was, at least not in a way that would cause a scandal. But every day they could, for a time, they went to lunch together. And every day, for a time, they emailed each other videos and articles. And sometimes he sent her songs that felt romantic but she brushed it off because a lot of songs are romantic and just because you’re listening to a man croon “I’m on Fire,” over and over again doesn’t mean the man who sent you the song–just the song, with no caption, no text, no nothing–is trying to send you a message. She listened to that song ten times in one day partly because she forgot how much she loved it, and partly because when she closed her eyes and mouthed the words, she felt like she was the one writing it.
The Account Manager was late to the Christmas party, so late that The Director sighed to herself and eyed her coat, preparing to make her exit. Then he walked in, and she was so relieved and excited that she didn’t realize how drunk he was. He hugged every person that stood between them, lingering with every woman, and sometimes letting his hands travel too far down their backs. They hadn’t really talked in weeks, no emails or lunches either. She started thinking about the troubling things she had started to hear about The Account Manager. How he would show up unprepared to meetings and make commitments but not follow through. He said the right things when they called him out on it, “I’ll do everything I can to get back on track.” Except he didn’t, he only got worse.
The Account Manager was about to start apologizing again, must have been the third round already. His legs keep shifting back and forth, right leg on the left knee, then quickly both feet on the floor, then feet scooped up under him as he bent his body forward to say something.
The Director looked at him with focused eyes, eyes that said she will not let him set the pace, she was not going to be rushed. And it’s not because that night, at the Christmas party, when he finally got to her, he wrapped his drunken arms around her, in front of everyone, and planted a firm kiss on her neck—in front of everyone. Or because, right after that, in front of everyone, he lifted his head, made the clicking noise with his mouth like Marcello Mastroianni, lowered his hands to her ass and said, “looking good, boss.” Her face that night became as red as the blouse she is wearing this day, the day she will fire The Account Manager.
“Your job performance,” The Director said, looking down onto her notes, “has needed substantial improvement–”
“Yes, I kno–”
“I’d appreciate that you’d let me finish. I won’t lie to you, this won’t be the most pleasant conversation, but if you take a moment to let me finish and a moment to process, I think it can be a very useful one. Ok?” She needed to be the boss, not impersonate one.
“I know, I know. You’re right, this whole conversation—I completely understand where it’s coming from. I’ve talked with my therapist about my self-destructiveness and how it’s coming through in my work.”
“Well, that sounds very healthy,” The Director said. She couldn’t stop herself from changing her posture when he said “therapist,” weakening her shoulders and her eyebrows to show she still cared about The Account Manager.
“Only started a week ago—ten years too late really,” he laughed. “But starting is something right? Isn’t that what people say?” He laughed again.
One, two, three, four, five seconds went by before The Director responded.
“Yes, starting therapy is definitely something positive,” she smiled blankly, showing him nothing of herself. “I’m glad you’re finding support outside of work and I hope it’ll be helpful to you—”
“Yes, I think so! I think I can really start implementing the improvements Eric and Marta have suggested. I have this habit of messing things up, especially when it’s starting to really take shape and feel good—you know?”
“I think this could be a useful conversation for your therapist,” The Director said, her eyes direct, her posture unmoved.
The Account Manager nodded, averted his eyes, and pointed his chin towards the floor.
He reminded her of a pitiful dog, the kind that would whine alongside the dinner table, until he would realize, finally, finally, that he would not receive a handful of something and go quiet.
“From what I understand, Eric and Marta have talked with you a few times about your performance. It’s surprising to me that you’ve made it past your probation,” The Director said. She looked at him, noticing his eyes watering as he continued to look away, and she willed herself not to blink, to push through the pain that emanated off of him and looked to plant itself onto her. Her hands shook as she held them together underneath the table, away from his view. She wanted to bite her lip, she wanted to scratch behind her ear, find some sort of relief, but she knew she wouldn’t, maybe for a long time.
* * *
Marianna Faynshteyn was born in Ukraine and moved to New York as a young child. While she had originally worked in journalism, she transitioned into Digital Advertising and now works in Product Management. For the last nine years, she has lived in Amsterdam.