Turn 71 of 228

Go to Diane's office and check on her

Lena stands. The controller drops to the carpet and the screen pauses and the vodka bottle stays on the floor and she walks to the door and the office is warm and the carpet is warm under her feet and the hallway is quiet. The fluorescent lights hum and the carpet is industrial gray and the smell of Diane is everywhere — in the walls, in the air, the thick living smell of a body that has stopped apologizing. Lena walks past two closed doors and the cubicles are empty and the phones are quiet and the floor is still and she reaches Diane's office and the door is closed.

She knocks. Not a question-knock. Not a polite one. Just knuckles on wood, two times, the way you knock when you belong somewhere. A pause. Then Diane's voice — steady, professional, the same voice that runs quarterly reviews and manages Henderson accounts — says, "It's open."

Lena pushes the door and the smell doubles. The office is small — smaller than Lena's — a desk and a chair and a window that faces west and the blinds are half-open and the light cuts across the room and Diane is sitting in the chair with her bare feet on the desk and the folder open in her lap and the laptop glowing. Her body fills the chair. The belly rests on her thighs and the breasts rest on the belly and the fold where the belly meets the hips is deep and shadowed and the stretch marks catch the light from the window. The beard is darker than it was in the hallway — the fluorescents wash it out but the window light holds it and it's patchy and short and real. There's a smear of chocolate on her chin and a stain on the desk where something spilled and the trash can is full of wrappers and the recycling bin has three soda cans and the office smells like her and the smell is thick and warm and alive.

"Hey," Lena says.

"Hey," Diane says. She doesn't look up from the folder. Her eyes move across the page and her lips move slightly — reading, processing — and the bare feet on the desk are dirty and the soles are dark and the toes curl and flex against the wood. The belly rises and falls with her breathing and the breasts shift and the stretch marks catch the light and the beard catches the light and the hair under her arms is visible because her arms are raised, the folder held high, and the hair is dark and curling and unwashed.

Lena leans against the doorframe and the metal is cool against her shoulder and her own body presses against it — 313 pounds of belly and breast and thigh and the doorframe holds. She says, "How's it going." Diane turns a page and says, "Henderson wants a call. Direct. They're pushing for a meeting with the lead analyst." She says it the way she says everything now — flat, informational, without the management polish that used to layer every sentence. The words are the words and nothing else.

"I told them you're email-only. They pushed back. I told them again. They're sending a formal request."

Lena says, "What happens if they push harder." Diane looks up. The folder closes and the chocolate is on her chin and the beard frames her face and the eyes are clear and steady.

"I handle it," she says. "That's what I'm here for. You do the work. I do the wall." She opens the folder again and looks back down and the meeting is over and Lena stands in the doorframe and the hallway is quiet and the building holds them and the smell is everywhere and the morning continues.