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Friday afternoons existed in the slow lane of spacetime for Karen. They always had. Whether it was in elementary school, watching the second hand jump backwards and tremble and rarely, ever, tick forward, or workdays, when the space between lunch and clocking out yawned like the Grand Canyon. She was pretty sure that they were getting longer as she grew older — and not just because these days, as a business owner, she never quite clocked out to begin with.
She was doing her damnedest not to check the time down in the corner of any of her three monitors while half-daydreaming about the weekend ahead. Dan had the kid for the next week, so Karen ought to have had loads of time to look forward to and waste over second servings of Eggos for dinner and naps. (So many naps. She missed naps.)
Left to her own devices, of course, she'd be on the laptop all weekend, occasionally remembering to take a bite from the sandwich she had delivered the night before. But daydreaming was pleasant, however inaccurate.
Not quite as much fun, or out there, as her sort-of how'd-this-even-happen what-are-we-to-each-other girlfriend, admittedly. Britta Perry brought the earnest whimsy and grandiose, ambitious planning to heights Karen could never hope to equal.
A winter storm was headed for the entire municipal area. People around here took such things in stride, so there weren't runs on bread and milk or anything. On the other hand, there also weren't "Tell Climate Change to Get Fucked" parties like the one Britta was proposing.
"Let's just, like..." Karen squinted at her email and adjusted the volume on her phone so she could hear Britta better. "Make microwave nachos and watch shitty dating shows."
"C'mon, it'll be fun! We'll stay up late and make fruity cocktails and wear sarongs and —" Britta paused. "Are sarongs cultural appropriation?"
Karen tapped her pen against her mouse pad. "No clue."
"Okay, I'm googling, I'm googling..."
Karen forced herself to focus on the Excel sheet displaying on her central monitor. So many cells. So many numbers.
Her phone ting'd with a notification: Britta had sent her a photo. The caption read: Babez!!!1
She wasn't wrong.
"Did you get it?" Britta asked excitedly. "I found the coolest picture! You're going to love it!"
"I got it," Karen told her. "How goes the googling for cultural sensitivity?"
For a couple moments, Britta was silent. "I got distracted," she finally admitted. "Let me get back to it."
"Or — and hear me out, just an idea, bear with me — we could decide to agree that 'sarong' is just a placeholder for a method of wrapping fabric. And move on."
Britta exhaled windily. It made Karen's ear-bud whistle. "Okay," she said. "That sounds good."
"Good."
"God, you're so corporate, though, you know?"
"I don't even know what means," Karen said. She had her suspicions, of course, but if she had learned anything from her previous Britta-experiences, it was not to make assumptions.
"It's really hot," Britta said, but she didn't exactly sound happy about that. She sounded reluctant, and maybe a little shy. "Like, oh, push me around, Type-A Capitalist Exec Suite, make me your personal assistant."
"I already have a PA," Karen said. "His name is Jamal and he rocks."
"Yeah, I know. He's great." If ever a tone could be called begrudging, it was Britta's.
"Besides, you'd be a terrible PA."
"I would not!"
"You would."
She heard Britta breathing for a bit. "Yeah, I would. I really would."
"You so would, babe."
"But I want to make something very clear —"
"Listening."
"I wear that incompetence at white-collar-busywork as a badge of pride."
"Noted," Karen said and tried to keep most of the amusement out of her voice. She didn't do a very good job.
It wasn't that she wanted to hurt Britta's feelings. It was just that sometimes (a lot of the time, to be honest), their jokes missed each other's comfort zones and landed right in sore spots. Like now, Karen knew she was not-quite-laughing indulgently, appreciatively, at Britta's commitment to her principles; Britta wouldn't be herself without that. But Britta was far too accustomed to being laughed at for those principles.
"So you're coming over?" Britta asked.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I?"
"Just, I don't know. We don't have to do the party thing. I can return the inflatable palm trees —"
"We're doing the party," Karen told her. She had more than a sneaking suspicion that plastic leis were already draped around Britta's studio apartment. The cat might already be wearing one. She closed her laptop with a decisive click and turned off the big monitor before pushing out from her desk. "In fact, I'm leaving now."
"It's not even four!"
"Want to beat the snow," Karen said firmly. She could almost see the smile breaking over Britta's face. "Call it boss's privilege, sneaking out early."
"I'll allow it," Britta replied. "This one time."