Jillian

rapidly squeezing the ball controller until the alarm buzzed and she had to get up, get in the shower, and take the bus to work.
The bus was the same as always, the elevator and the hallway were the same as always, the greeting from Jillian was the same as always, the way her desk felt was the same as always, the slowness of the computer was the same as always, and as always Megan’s mind idly floated to the subject of suicide.
Halfway through the day, Megan started dicking around on the internet. She made her browser window as small as she could, paused for a second, and then looked up “Carrie Wilkins.” She found Carrie’s website, and on it, this bio:
Hi, my name’s Carrie. I’m 26. I make things. I paint and I write, but mostly I design. I like to make things beautiful, or creative. I make my own food and I’m trying to grow my own beets. A lot of people around me seem unhappy and I don’t understand why. I freelance because I know I’d go insane if I couldn’t make my own schedule—I believe variety is the zest of life. I know I want a dog someday soon, and sometimes I make lunch at 3 a.m.
I believe in the power of collaboration, and I’d love to work with you!
What a total asshole. What does she have, some kind of a pact with Satan?
The picture next to Carrie’s bio had some kind of heavy filter on it that made it look vintage, and she had a friendly but aloof look on her face. She was flanked on both sides by plants and was wearing an oxford shirt with fancy shorts and had a cool necklace. It was an outfit, for sure, like all of Carrie’s clothes were outfits, which Megan always thought of as outdated or something only children did.
The website linked to a blog, which was mostly photos of Carrie doing different things. It didn’t take too long to find the picture of her with the llama with a caption about how she and her boss got it from a homeless guy.
And then just products. Pictures and pictures of products, and then little captions about how the products inspired her.
Motherfucker, thought Megan. She doesn’t get it at all. It was like looking at an ad for deodorant or laundry soap that made you feel smelly and like you’d been doing something wrong that the person in the ad had already figured out, but since it was an ad, there was no real way to smell the person and judge for yourself whether or not the person stank, and that was what she hated, hated, hated most of all.
I make things, gee-wow. You think you’re an artist? Do you really thing this blog is a representation of art, that great universalizer? That great transmigrator? This isolating schlock that makes me feel like I have to buy into you and your formula for happiness? Work as a freelance designer, grow beets, travel, have lots of people who like you, and above all have funsies!
“Everything okay?” asked Jillian.
“Yeah, what?”
“Breathing kind of heavy over there, just making sure you were okay and everything.”
“Oh, uh-huh, I’m fine,” said Megan.
“It’s not . . . something I’m doing, is it?”
“What? No. No, I’m fine,” said Megan.
How could someone not understand that other people could be unhappy? What kind of callous, horrible bullshit was that to say to a bunch of twenty-year-olds, particularly, when this was the time in life when things were even more acutely painful than they were in high school, that nightmare fuck, because now there were actual stakes and everyone was coming to grips with the fact that they’re going to die and that life might be empty and unrewarding. Why even bring it up? Why even make it part of your mini-bio?
She copied and pasted Carrie’s bio into an email to Randy and bolded the part about not understanding pain. The subject line was SEE? and the message was, “A little callous, don’t you think?”
Randy had been about to email Carrie about helping with a new contract when he got the email.
“Hey, guess what?” said Jillian.
“Huh,” said Megan. She’d closed the internet and was going to do some work and not think about things for the next few hours.
“I think I found a good place to get a dog.”
“I thought you didn’t have the money right now,” said Megan.
“Weeelll,” said Jillian. “But I really want one. I really feel like this is the right time in my life.”
“Okay. I guess I just didn’t get my first dog until I was in high school because my parents had to pay off their student loans first, so I think of your forties as the time to get a dog,” said Megan.
Jillian looked at Megan like she hadn’t heard. I can say anything, thought Megan, and only what she wants to go in goes in.
“Awww,” said Jillian. “Well, it’s this really cool place with rescue dogs on the outside of town. These aren’t just dogs whose owners can’t take them anymore, these are dogs who’ve experienced real trauma.”
“Aren’t those the kinds of dogs who need around-the-clock care and training?”
“Awww, but I think we can take care of one. I already have it all figured out. With the extra money I get from the coding business I’m starting, I can hire a dog walker, and then when I go down to part-time hours, you know, to work from home more, I’ll only need the walker two days a week.”
Ah, yes, the coding business.
Sometimes Jillian could see what was to come with such clarity it was as if she were already paying the dog walker with a sealed white envelope of cash.
Sometimes Megan wanted to walk over to Jillian and block her airways.
•   •   •
As it was Friday, it was now time for serious drinking. On the walk home from the bus, Megan picked up a twelve-pack at a discounted price. Before taking her shoes and jacket off,