Rage, rage against

Them

I'm sitting here in our weekly department meeting, listening to one of my coworkers droning on about compliance numbers. All the while, he's nodding and smiling at our boss like he's the hottest shit, like he practically invented this line of business. His voice, an insistent buzzing against the four walls of this tiny room.

Yak, yak, yak. Something about debt instruments. Something about equitable interest. This same guy, the one who corners me in the break room every morning to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that I'm headed to hell. He leaves pamphlets in my cubicle, urging me to go to conversion therapy. He tells me, and often in a loud, carrying voice, that my "alternative lifestyle" is an act of blasphemy against common sensibilities. Beseeching me to please, please, just let him help.

And my boss, she's sitting there lapping it up. Nodding and smiling like a puppet as he sloughs through his report, PowerPoint slide after PowerPoint slide. She doesn't even spare anyone else in the room a glance. Our other coworkers, bobbing their heads in tune to the drone of this guy's voice, scribbling things down in spiral notebooks or tapping frantically away at their keyboards.

I stand up and walk to the door. It takes everyone a second to figure out what I'm doing. My coworker's voice trails off as his eyes follow me across the room, hurt and puzzled. As if he's the victim here. A roomful of bewildered eyes, watching me. That gap of silence, and I let myself out.

Behind me, I hear my boss calling my name questioningly, but I don't stop. I ride the elevator down sixteen floors to the lobby. The building is a government one, old and shabby, and the folks who work here are even worse. The receptionist stands up nervously as I pass, shouting my name. I ignore her and step out onto the street. I start walking, my dress shoes making small clicking noises on the concrete. There will be hell to pay later, but right now, I don't care.

It's three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and already the daylight is waning. It's beastly cold, and I'm at the intersection before I curse myself for forgetting my coat. I can't go back, not now. I hunch forward, my hands balled to fists under my armpits, and take longer strides.

I have no idea where I'm going at first, and then suddenly I do. I cross another street and make a turn. There, the coffee shop. Full of people my age, chasing their lost, disaffected youth in their beanies and faded sweatshirts and ripped jeans. Macbooks open on rough-grain wooden tables, and a slew of bicycles parked against the glass. Their artisanal roast steaming gently before them in mason jars.

I spy the elf behind the bar. His blond hair swept into a messy bun, he's wearing a brown apron and a pair of black-framed glasses far too big for his narrow face. He towers over the other baristas and customers, his pointy ears adding to his ridiculous height. He smiles as he hands a woman her coffee, and I push the door open and walk in.

Hey, I say, and his eyes widen behind the frames of his glasses. In the natural light, they're a pleasing hazel. He says my name, and I'm surprised at how quickly he recognizes me. In my pressed white shirt, black dress pants, and boring blue tie, I could be any corporate drudge. The inside of the cafe is deliciously warm, and I uncurl my hands and dig for my wallet. A cup of coffee, please, I tell him.

When it's done, he brings it over himself. "How've you been?"

Same old, same old, I say. The girl with full-sleeve tattoos and purple hair at the next table, she's eyeing him hungrily, staring at the taut round curve of his ass, packed neatly into his skinny jeans like two melons in a sack. I resist the urge to give her the finger. Have you made contact with the human overlords yet? I ask, just to be polite.

He shakes his head no. A rueful smile rises to his lips. "I've taken to pasting flyers and calling the newspapers, but nothing's come out of it so far."