My fiancé does not like the smell of fast food, greasy paper bags or unrefined sugars. I like the scent, at times, more than the contents. Limp potato matchsticks with bits of potato skin left on make it seem more real. He scolds me when I come home with a Big Gulp in hand. He likes the gym and time management.

“Managing time.” He stresses, finger pointy, seeking to transfer his passion for precision from his nail bed to my wrinkled forehead.

Anyway, I knew this simply would not do. I did not like to manage my time. I enjoy getting soil between my fingers and recycling plastic spinach bins. He gifted me a pink plastic brush to scrub my filthy nails. He is averse to natural things, even the blood spot in my underwear one week out of the month.

“You cannot garden for the rest of your life,” he told me, demanding I get serious about my career.

So I sit at a desk shrouded by two colossal monitors, pressing the top of a ballpoint pen, click-click-click. My hands are decorated with paper cuts, and I cannot stop thinking about how the pieces of this puzzle will not click into place; no amount of rearranging will make it work. The presentation, this job, my relationship, all of it simply will not do.

As I reflect, my coworker, Joan, slips silently into my office and kneels in front of my chair. She looks up at me and smiles.

“Good luck. You’ve got this; I believe in you.”

I am so accustomed to erosion that I’m shocked by tenderness. It goes well. I hit it out of the park, as they say, standing in the sterile conference room in front of the smiling bearded faces of upper management. It was well received, and I shook many enthusiastic hands. Then it’s dinner. I push my food around my plate while my fiance studies my face.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh… nothing.” A lie, I hope he doesn’t detect.

I am thinking of Joan. What’s wrong with me? I scanned the table for evidence; two perfectly white porcelain plates, some tapas, two perfect shiny crystal glasses, and a bottle of expensive white wine. And then at this man, his bone structure striking and skin without blemish. It just wasn’t right.

The next day, I marched into Joan’s office and asked her to do it again. She smiled and separated her hands, cupping my face between them. She wears flecks of paint on the back of her hands. She is sharp and nurtures secret creative endeavors. I want to know about them.

That evening, from the office, I called my fiancé. I say, don’t wait up and offer no explanation. I meet her around the corner for coffee. We plan a trip to Europe together and mull over films and ideas for novels. She’s an adventurer. I think I’d like to be an adventurer too.

– Samantha Allen