"No, my hair looks awesome," Violet snapped. "But really, thanks for being supportive."
"I thought you were looking for the truth!" Don protested.
"The truth?"
"Constructive criticism."
"No. No, no, no, no. You can't just blatantly tell a woman what you don't like about her appearance—"
"That's not what I said—"
"No, let me finish, Keefer!" Violet shouted; around them, every head that wasn't already subtly angled in their direction turned. "You do not get to tell a woman what you, a man with an unsolicited opinion, think about her appearance, and then call it constructive criticism. The only thing that quote-unquote criticism is constructing is a hatred of men and a strong desire to go be a hermit in Canada!"
"You . . . asked for my opinion," Don said.
"No, I did not!" Violet cried. "It doesn't matter what you think, if someone asks you how her hair looks, you put aside whatever it may actually look like and say—"
She broke off into a loud, rattling, hacking series of coughs, stepping away from Don. He watched with concern, wanting to help but not sure she wouldn't punch him even while coughing up a lung. Around them, the expressions of everyone who had been watching turned from excited interest to worry.
After about twenty seconds longer than such a fit should have lasted, she stopped coughing and pressed her fingertips to her mouth. She swallowed. She looked more vulnerable in that moment than she had when she was having a breakdown in his office at two in the morning last week, worried and scared.
But then her face hardened, and she squared her shoulders, and the moment was gone, and—"AS I was saying—"
"You really should get that checked out," Don said.
"For FUCK'S sake, Donald Abraham Keefer," she yelled, "if you don't stop FUCKING INTERRUPTING me, I'm going to judo-flip you through your own glass door and stab you in the throat with the FUCKING HANDLE!"
"Good Lord," Don heard Neal Sampat mutter from his desk.
"AS," she said, loud, menacing, "I SAID EARLIER, you put aside however bad it may look and say 'It looks great' or, if you can't muster up that much of a white lie, a simple 'Good' will do. Not EVER like a wavy-haired possum!"
Don lifted his hands. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"Good," she said.
"My middle name is Ryland," he said.
"I know," she said, and paused. "Is it really?"
"Yes."
"I knew that." She turned on her heel—impressive, as she was wearing stilettos—and promptly tripped ribs-first into Jim Harper's desk.
"Whoa!" Jim yelped, leaping from his chair as gasps echoed around the room. Don lunged to catch her, but she didn't fall, just sort of slid until her knees hit the floor and put her head down.
"Owww," she moaned.
"Jesus, Violet." Don crouched next her, waving Jim off. "Are you all right?"
"What do you think," she groaned.
"I think you should get your forehead off Jim's tape dispenser before it pokes through your skin and you start bleeding everywhere," he suggested quietly.
"Fuck off." She lifted her head. "It's all right, everyone, I'm fine. Sorry about your desk, Jim."
"No hard feelings," he said, eyeing her a bit warily. She got to her feet, wobbling in her heels a little, then seemed to think better and took them off. It was strange for Don to be taller than her, disconcerting. He didn't like it. He'd gotten used to looking right at her, not down.
"I'll be in my office," Violet said, and walked away, a hand to her ribs.
