Chapter Text
Look, she'll level with you here. Being a CEO isn't exactly what she was expecting out of life. She'd come out of school with a liberal arts degree. That doesn't normally tend to breed corporate fodder.
But, somehow, she'd clawed her way to the top. Nails bloodied.
It's this train of thought that's interrupted by a:
"Gloria?"
She shakes herself out of her stupor. Moves forward to grab her coffee, black, from the same apathetic college-type barista as usual. She'll tip 25% on that stupid Ipad thing they use because they're an independent store and determined to make you know it and then walk out.
The whole process is almost muscle memory. She's been doing it every day for the past five years.
If she's feeling particularly adventurous, she'll get a pastry. Today is not one of those days.
"Gloria?"
She moves forward, starts to reply to an email on her phone.
And then she glances up and the breath is stolen from her lungs.
Everything pauses for a moment.
The barista is not an apathetic college student. She's a fucking super-model.
Her name tag literally reads Barbie. Gloria couldn't make this up if she tried.
Barbie, in question, is looking back at her with a small smile on her face.
"You okay there?"
Gloria snaps out of it. Pulls out her card.
"Yeah, yes. Sorry. Spaced out."
Barbie hums in response as she gets the card machine. Rings up Gloria's total.
"It's alright. I do that all the time, it's wonder I still have this job."
She winks as she says it.
Gloria thinks her heart stops beating.
Barbie, for a moment, pauses. Her eyes meet with Glorias again. She holds her gaze for a second or two.
And then she's pulling a sharpie from behind her ear and scribbling something down on the cup. Her tongue sticks out slightly as she does, her brow wrinkles.
"Your total is four dollars."
"Thanks."
Gloria tips 100%. Walks off, dazed.
Glances over her shoulder as she leaves to see Barbie staring right back at her.
It's only as she walks out of the coffee shop, face growing warmer by the minute, that she realises Barbie had scrawled her phone number onto the cup.
There's a heart at the end of it.
And all Gloria wants to do is blow off the rest of her meetings, walk right back in, and spend the rest of her life with a barista she's talked to for about a total of two minutes.
That's normal. She's sane and well-adjusted and her job hasn't driven her to a point of stress where she thinks she's in love with someone based on a moment of eye contact.
Her phone buzzes with a barrage of text messages.
It's about as firm a pull back down to reality as possible.
She'd wanted to be an artist before she left college and realised what the word meant. She'd wanted to work on things she loved, leave work covered in paint splatters, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and feel that rush of satisfaction that had only ever come when she'd finished a project, a painting, a sketch.
But she'd left and the money just wasn't there. Studio space was too expensive, so were supplies. People didn't want to buy her art until she'd made more of a name for herself; she couldn't make a name for herself unless she sold any art.
And then it was three years later and she was still living in a dingy flat-share, still watching her college loans sit there, slowly growing.
It wasn't that she didn't love art, of course, she did. It was just that somewhere along the way being an "artist" had gone from something to be admired to something that meant you still hadn't sorted your life out, got a grip on the real world.
Gloria thinks it would be really nice if everyone around her could start doing their jobs properly.
Her assistant lets another person into her office, screws up her face behind him as he enters.
Gloria resigns herself to the shitshow she knows is going to follow.
It doesn't really matter to the men who come into her office that she is, in fact, their boss. The first thing they see is that she's a woman. Then it's all condescension, eyes flicking between her chest and her face, and a grin so goddamn slimy you'd need to get the fucking Ghostbusters to deal with it.
While he talks at her, attempting to bludgeon her half to death with his words, she thinks, idly, about the slight flex of Barbie's hands as she had written her number down.
Everyone had kissed girls at college. It was an arts college, after all. They'd all wanted to be progressive, boundary-pushing, revolutionary. At the time, it felt like an easy way to do that. Something intimate and yet provocative.
The problem had been, though, that it was always just that. The girls had wanted a moment in the spotlight, to flaunt something in the face of authority. They'd liked Gloria for that.
They didn't like when she called up the next day, though, or tried to walk with them to class. They didn't like when she sat next to them in the cafeteria, tried to strike up a conversation by the lockers.
The house is empty when she gets home. Sasha is with her dad for the next few days.
Gloria drops her keys down onto the side table. The noise rings out like a gunshot through the silence.
Then she's making a beeline for the kitchen, kicking her shoes off, throwing her blazer somewhere, and pulling out the cork of a wine bottle with her teeth.
Desperate times. Desperate measures.
There's a mountain of emails she needs to reply to by tomorrow, regardless of the fact it's Saturday. The truth is, she can't remember the last time she did something for herself. It's either work or Sasha or sleep.
She's set the coffee cup down on the counter. It sits there in pride of place. Against the white of the kitchen, the white of the cup, it seems to swallow up the entire space. Become the only thing worth looking at.
Her vision is blurred, slightly. Her glass lies to the side on refill number- well, she's lost count.
She types.
'Hey, I'm Gloria. You gave me your number? I was in the suit, the blue one.'
Deletes. Retypes.
'Hi! I'm Gloria, don't know if you remember me but you have me your number?'
Deletes, deletes, deletes.
Slams her phone against her head, gently.
'Hey it's Gloria. I think I'm basically in love with you even though we don't know each other. Also you're basically a supermodel and I am, most definitely, not. Please let me grab a coffee with you. I desperately need something to do other than work because even though I hate my job I can't seem to quit.'
Delete. Delete.
Except her vision is blurred and her thumb slips and-
Woosh.
Gloria stares, dumbly, at her screen as the message sends.
The clock ticks on, agonisingly, in the background.
She fumbles to delete it before-
Seen
She might die, actually. She might move to Peru and never come back.
It would let her leave her job as well if she moved. She could have a career change: CEO to mountain hermit.
The more she thinks about it, the nicer it sounds.
Her phone chirps.
'Hey Gloria (´ ∀ ` *) grabbing a coffee sounds great!!!!!!!!! I'll b off my shift @ 5 tmmrow ;) it's barbie by the way
Ps. Thought you were the supermodel'
And Gloria realises that this is going to be the death of her.