All For Fun | Jenna Ortega Imagines

Forget Her III (c.s)

It was seven in the evening and you were in your office, with a new interview of Glen failing to answer a direct question: are there any truths to the rumors that you and Valerie Foxx slept together? playing in the background from your laptop.

You were in your swivel, shredding the bad article submissions from today. There were always plenty but today, the amount were staggering. You assumed it was because of the embargo Cairo implemented. Your private life not being up for speculation, evaluation and report must've jumpstarted an epidemic of mediocrity and roundabout writing at the paper. Kind of like Glen's roundabout answer:

"You know, Valerie and I — we're two smart and attractive friends who play professional dress up for a living. That unimaginable chemistry that gives everyone other impressions, to me, means we're really good at our jobs."

So he thought Valerie was smart and attractive.

"Keep telling on yourself," you said to the screen with the last three-page article in hand, pushing it through the shredder.

For about three seconds, you heard the motor of the shredder and then sudden silence. You felt resistance between the paper and the entry. "What the hell?"

You let the papers go, testing to see if your pressure was a problem. It wasn't. Frozen in time, the papers remained still dangling out of the shredder's mouth. The shredder was jammed. "Fuck."

"You and Valerie are great at your jobs, but the chemistry isn't why rumors are swirling. You were photographed leaving Valerie's Los Angeles estate last week. What do you have to say about that?"

You dragged the shredder closer and lifted the head from the waste bin. Small cuts of paper fell everywhere while you flipped the head over to examine it better. The blades were clogged and it wasn't a finger or pen job to undo it. You tried and failed so you set it in the floor, catching the final bit of Glen's interview:

"Friends go to each other's houses. They talk, spend time, y'know? It's not taboo. My friend and I just so happen to be famous."

"Your friend is famous but also married. Have you heard the audio of Y/n_Y/l/n saying, I quote, 'I told you already, I don't know the *bleep* guy. I've never *bleep* met him.' Is it common for friends to not have met their spouses and yet visit one another's homes?"

"That audio depresses me because I feel really connected to Y/n. They're exactly what I want to be when I grow up."

You squinted at him mentioning that he wanted to be you as opposed to be like you. A subtle but powerful difference. "What a piece of shit," you dismissed him and slammed the laptop closed. Your gaze fell to the shredder, remembering it was jammed, "you too."

You sprung from the seat and out of your office. You navigated the quiet and dark clerical space until you reached the elevator. Your office building had a basement floor underneath the ground floor where you stored replacements of most essential machines, bulks of office supplies, and what you needed now, tools. You stepped onto the elevator pressing 'B'.

Ten floors down.

With your eyes to the weathered tile and brain analyzing Glen's interview, you waited for the doors to shut. They would've closed had someone not interrupted the closing with a limb and "Wait!"