'til the road and sky align

[ CHAPTER SEVEN ]

There are three people named Vincent that work in his building -- one of whom works in his department. There is one person named Christopher in HR, someone whose dog is named Ash, seventy kajillion dudes named John on the second floor alone -- and when he walked past Irma's office after lunch, he distinctly heard the word gnarly, which sent the warning bells in Yale's head ringing. He tried not to be weird about it, really, but then his secretary tells him they've hit the max number of interns to stuff into the finance department, and Yale nearly staples his fingers to a bunch of papers.

The more he tries to not ponder over the call, the more he notices how many Eastern European people with deep accents mingle around the Starbucks by the community college, or how many times Farrah talks about all the lipstick stains she leaves on the rim of her cups. Ever since that night, Yale has been reduced to a mere honing signal. It doesn't help that Angel, whose office is two rooms down, is a very outgoing Filipino -- and if Chino was any example, you will be able to find other Filipinos nearby, and they may not know Chino, but sometimes Yale just wants to ask because, like, y'know, What If.

The more he tries to pointedly not think about it, the more he stares at his desk phone, daring it to ring. If it did, he wouldn't even know what to say, but at least it would quell, like, one of his anxieties. He'd say hello, obviously, because he isn't that much of an idiot. He'd say How are you, How have you been, How did you get my number. Or maybe not. Maybe Vikentiy will talk over him, and this all would be easier. Maybe he'll find the words through the Ｖｏｉｃｅ Ｏｆ Ｇｏｄ, or maybe Buddha will personally come down from Heaven and engulf him in heavenly wisdom.

He turns to his computer. The Excel sheet is filled to tbe brim with arbritary numbers that have hit the millions. Rows upon rows of numbers sit poised; the slightest change can send the values skyrocketing or plummeting. In the background. settled as a neat stack on his task bar, are sixteen other worksheets that are needed in by Thursday, Wrexham, and it's important they are done by then.

He's got half a mind to pull up his email, and start typing away, Excel sheets be damned.

Dear Alyssa,

No, too formal. It's an email to his friend, not his aunt.

Yo! Alyssa! Wassup?

God, he's not a fucking twelve year-old.

Hi, Alyssa. Could we maybe not like have a band in the first place? I know who you got for our band, Alyssa. I'm not actually an idiot and you're not good at surprises. I would rather not have to deal with this right now because. . . .

He clicks open his browser. Compose New Email. To: Alyssa Young.

Because he still makes me feel dizzy, and my stomach starts to twist, and his voice is sadder than I've heard him but it still pulls on my heartstrings. . . .

BCC: Theodore Burgh.

Hello, Alyssa. I can't do this.

He groans aloud. He buries his face into his hands, fingers tugging at his hair. His hands are clammy with sweat, but it feels cold when he presses it against his warmed cheeks.

He really can't do this.

Dear Alyssa, how are you?

Stop dawdling. . . .

Dear Alyssa, just please no Air Supply in the set list. Thank you.