She’s not. “Did she do something to you?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me, please.” I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “I’m here for you, whatever it is—”

“Her stupid curls,” Rocío spits out. “They look like a damn Fibonacci spiral. They’re logarithmic, and their growth factor is the golden ratio—not to mention that they even look like spun gold. Is she Cinderella? Is this Disneyland Paris?”

I blink. “Ro, are you—”

“And what self-respecting person wears that much glitter?

Unironically?”

“I like glitter—”

“No, you don’t,” she growls. I can only nod. Okay. Don’t like glitter anymore. “And earlier she dropped something and you know what she said?”

“Oops?”

“ ‘Lordy.’ She said, ‘Oh, Lordy!’—do you understand why I cannot work with her?”

I nod to buy time. This is . . . interesting. At the very least. “I, um, understand that you two are very different and might never be friends, but I need you to overcome your . . . revulsion for sequins—”

“Pink sequins.”

“—for pink sequins, and to get along with her.”

“Impossible. I quit.”

“Listen, none of these things are grounds for a formal complaint. We can’t police our coworkers’ sense of fashion.”

Rocío frowns. “What if I told you that she had a lollipop? The kind with gum inside?”

“Still no.” I smile. “Wanna know something? Everything you feel about Kaylee, Levi feels about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He hates my hair. My piercings. My clothes. I’m pretty sure he thinks my face is on par with a splatterpunk movie.”

“Splatterpunk movies are the best.”

“Somehow I don’t think he’d agree. But he ignores the fact that I’m a total swamp hag so we can collaborate. And you should do the same.”

Rocío resumes walking, morose. “Does he really hate the way you look?”

“Yep. Always did.”

“It’s strange, then.”

“What’s strange?”

“He stares at you. Plenty.”

“Oh, no.” I laugh. “He puts a lot of effort into not staring at me. It’s his CrossFit.”

“It’s the opposite. At least when you’re not looking.” I’m about to ask her if she’s high, but she shrugs. “Whatever. If you won’t support me in my hatred for Kaylee I have no choice but to call Alex and rage at him while I listen to

Norwegian death metal.”

I pat her back. “Sounds like the loveliest of evenings.”

At home, I just want to stuff my face with peanut butter cups and send twelve @WhatWouldMarieDo tweets about the injustice of Sausage Referencing™, but I limit myself to checking my DMs. I smile when I find one from Shmac:

SHMAC: How are things?

MARIE: Weirdly, much better.

SHMAC: Did camel dick burst into ames?

MARIE: Lol, no. I do think he might be less of a camel dick than I thought. Still a dick, don’t get me wrong. But maybe not camel. Maybe he’s like, idk, a duck dick?

SHMAC: Have you ever seen a duck dick?

MARIE: No? But they’re small and cute, right?

I watch the wheel spin as the picture he sends me loads. I initially think it’s a corkscrew. Then I realize that it’s attached to a little feathered body and—

MARIE: OMG WHAT IS THAT ABOMINATION

SHMAC: Your colleague.

MARIE: I take it back! I un-demote him! He’s a camel dick again!

MARIE: How’s your girlfriend?

SHMAC: Yet again: I wish.

MARIE: How are things with her?

There’s a long pause after, in which I decide to act like the motivated adult that I’m not and put on running shorts and my Marie Curie & The Isotopes—European Tour 1911

T-shirt.

SHMAC: A mess.

MARIE: How come?

SHMAC: I fucked things up.