Page 3

2

Lena

T he call queue refreshes. Another number. Another Diane moment.

I steal a glance at my laptop, where a Zillow tab sits open. I’ve been obsessively refreshing the same three listings all morning, despite knowing I can’t afford any of them.

I dial the next number, scrolling back to the apartment listing with my free hand.

Maybe if I sell enough death today, I can afford to start living again.

I stare at the gray partition wall as the phone rings endlessly in my ear. Three rings.

Four.

Five.

Please don’t pick up , I silently beg. I’m in no mood to convince another stranger that mortality is just around the corner.

“Hello?” A gravelly male voice answers, and my rehearsed script activates like muscle memory.

“Good afternoon, sir! This is Diane from SecureLife Insurance. How are you doing today?” My voice rises to that unnatural customer service octave that makes me want to punch myself in the throat.

“I’m on the do-not-call list,” he growls before hanging up.

Thank God. I glance at my watch—three minutes until my next mandatory call. Just enough time to continue my desperate apartment hunt. I click back to the browser tab. Two-bedroom with “charming pre-war details” (translation: asbestos and lead pipes) for only $2,100 a month. A bargain in this city, and still $700 beyond what I can afford.

My mouse hovers over the “Contact Landlord” button when I feel hot breath on my neck.

“Diiiaaane,” Marjorie’s voice slithers into my ear. “I couldn’t help but notice your call lasted only seven seconds.”

I swivel in my chair to face her and instantly regret it. Her lime green pantsuit seems specifically designed to trigger migraines.

“He was on the do-not-call list,” I explain.

Marjorie’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Did you try the rebuttal script on page forty-three? “The do-not-call list doesn’t apply to existing business relationships’?”

“We don’t have an existing business relationship.”

“But he doesn’t know that!” Marjorie taps my cubicle wall with her acrylic nails, each one painted a different neon color. “Remember, every rejection is just an opportunity for persistence!”

I nod, wondering if I could fit all my possessions in my Honda Civic’s trunk. The back seat is already taken up by three suitcases and my?—

Ping.

My cell phone.

I glance at the screen, already expecting bad news—a low balance alert, another urgent bill I can’t pay, something to really round out the day.

But instead, the subject line stops me cold.

Finalized Divorce Decree – Blackwell v. Blackwell

A lead weight drops into my stomach.

I stare at it, unmoving. My screen dims, like even my phone knows this is something I don’t want to look at.

I could pretend I didn’t see it. Leave it unread. Pretend it didn’t just slam the door on eight years of my life.

But pretending won’t matter. It’s done.

I’m officially divorced.

I exhale slowly, forcing my face into something neutral. I tell myself it’s a relief. That this was the goal. That I wanted it over. That this isn’t a tragedy, it’s just paperwork.

But Jesus Christ—finding out your marriage has officially dissolved while sitting in a shitty cubicle, at a dead-end job, with someone named Marjorie standing over you?

That’s a special kind of depressing.

I shove my phone face-down on my desk. Ignore it. Move on.

Ping.

Another email.

I frown, flipping my phone over again. Another legal doc? A spam alert?

But no.

Subject: Interview Opportunity – Shergar Corporation

I blink.

Shergar?

I didn’t apply to Shergar.

I open it, scanning the body of the email. A recruiter, some generic corporate speak, an invitation to discuss a “ unique career opportunity that aligns with your skill set. ”

I almost laugh.

My skill set?

No, I have skills. I just don’t use them here.

Here, my most developed talents include:

? Saying “I completely understand!” to irate strangers while dead inside.

? Selling fear to retirees while my own future circles the drain.

? Avoiding Marjorie at all costs.

But once, I was someone who did things that mattered.

Now? I’m just Diane. Hawking mortality for commission.

My stomach tightens.

Something about this doesn’t feel random.

Marjorie clears her throat loudly. “Diane, the phone.”

But I don’t pick it up.

I don’t move at all.

Because my phone just vibrated again.

A third notification.

Not an email. A calendar invite.

I click on it, expecting a glitch, spam, a mistake.

But it’s not.

It’s real.

Meeting Title: Interview – Shergar Corporation

Time: Tomorrow, 9:00 AM

Marjorie smacks her gum and throws one hand on her hip, looking at me like I’m one bad decision away from getting fired.

I say fuck it and hit “Accept.”