The Plan by Qwen Salsbury Page A

I’m ramped up on nerves, and moving too quickly will show it.
    The leg and its friend are in black pants. I’m a bit more disappointed than I expected.
    Bullshit. I’m super fucking disappointed.
    But the point is, I’m not showing it.
    He turns toward the main part of the room, toward me, and I begin wrapping the cord around his charger.
    Hoping my movements still look natural and unaffected—like hanging out in a hotel room with one’s potentially half-naked boss is a regular occurrence—my eyes flick up to see Canon stop mid-stride.
    His shirt is open. The man is wearing a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, cuffs loose. Pretending not to notice has just become a Herculean effort.
    “Explain yourself.”
    I barely glance up, even though staring would have been worth getting fired.
    I start to pack up his laptop. I’m all business.
    Pretending to misinterpret his words, I continue packing up as I rattle off the itinerary and my role in it. I’m to take notes, hand him hard copies or access reports as needed, watch for discrepancies. I omit “glorified nanny.”
    A few times it seems he’s about to say something, to redirect me back to the situation at hand, but I plow through. Finally I close with describing the food that better not have gotten cold.
    He nods once, mouth a thin line. The shirt is buttoned and tucked in now. I have missed the show.
    “You failed to mention the dinner meeting tonight. I presume you brought suitable attire.”
    “The little black dress. Perfect for all occasions.”
    “Hopefully not too little,” he says under his breath. He may have even rolled his eyes.
    Do I seem like some sort of tart? Is this because I’m in his room? He shouldn’t have told me to be here and given me a key then.
    He takes a sip of the coffee, and the look is priceless. He was so ready to bitch and moan, and I have kept him from it. Despite the fact that he had to realize I’ve checked off all the boxes this morning, he remains somber.
    “If orange juice is not okay, I can get you something else.” Prune juice perhaps?
    “A good rule of thumb,” he says as he polishes off the eggs, “is not to make offers one cannot complete.”
    “Agreed. Thank you for imparting your expertise,” I say. “By the by, I have grape, apple, and cranberry juice in my refrigerator, if you should feel so inclined.”
    He stops mid-bacon-chew. I think I’m getting addicted to flustering him.
    If I can’t be a blip on the radar, I will settle for being a fly in the ointment.
    4:47 p.m.
* Location : Office of Lawrence Peters, World’s Most Tedious Man.
    I F IND M YSELF T HINKING about that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when a female student blinks at Indy, and her eyelids have words on them that read “I Love You” in black eyeliner. Maybe I can do that but make it look like my eyes are open. Even if I weren’t already sleepy, this company’s CEO would do me in.
    He is ether in human form. I could easily keep up even if I hand-wrote everything.
    In calligraphy.
    Mr. Peters, on the downward slope to retirement, does not self-edit. Interspersed with the incredibly slow-spoken actual negotiations, we get it all. Some of it twice. The kids. The grandkids. The basset hound.
    They’re a hardy breed, seventeen years old before Peters had him put down last week. He will be missed.
    Peters has prostate issues as well. Nothing’s off limits, it seems.
    During this, Canon doesn’t even bat an eye. One would think he might be concerned about the health of his own prostate, given that it has been cohabiting with a very large stick.
    He makes notes of this minutia as though it’s as vital to closing the deal as the fine print in licensing our intellectual property rights.
    Canon has remained stoic. Begrudgingly, I must admit I’m impressed.
    Warm afternoon sun beats down on me from the window. There’s a sunbeam on the carpet near my chair. I want to curl up in it like a tabby cat.
    The morning was less trying. Three other