I should do nothing. Walk away. Just ignore the message.

Thomas will forget me soon enough. We may live in the same vicinity, but this is Paris. It’s a big place. As long as I don’t make a habit of doing my laundry on a Sunday evening at that specific laundromat, it’s likely we’ll never bump into each other again. Soon I’ll just be a memory to him and my legs will be twisted in someone else’s sheets. Someone like…

I open one of the five dating apps on my phone and scroll through my newest messages, glancing down through the profile pictures.

Someone like… Nicolas.

I click through to his profile. Good pictures. Good face. His profile says he’s five foot eleven which in dating language means he’s five foot eight when he’s standing up straight, but at least he doesn’t lead with his Uber rating. He’ll do. And so, as I finish my coffee, I reply to his message with: Hey x

Chapitre quatre

The little clock in the top right corner of my computer screen taunts me. It’s already 9.47 am. Wait, no, 9.48. That means I only have twelve minutes until our weekly editorial meeting where we talk about new ideas, compare how many likes and shares everyone got this week, and Hyacinth makes someone cry.

I’ve been safe so far: nobody wants to make the new girl cry. But this is my third editorial meeting, and I get the sense my grace period is drawing to a close.

I glance over at Wesley. He’s sitting across from me frowning at his computer, the blue rectangles from his screen reflecting in his round glasses. He’s already got sweat patches forming under the arms of his light blue shirt. I can’t tell if they’re in anticipation of our meeting or from his sprint into work.

Wesley and I emerged from the Bastille metro station at exactly the same time this morning. And so I did the only sane thing to do in that sort of situation: I rushed like hell so we wouldn’t have to make inane chitchat for the twelve long minutes it takes to walk to the office from the station. And when I say I rushed, I mean I jogged part of it. That’s how strong my commitment was.

When I arrived at the black, cast-iron gate nestled between two vast lighting shops that marks our office, I thought I was safe. But before I punched in the door code and made it inside, there he was behind me. Panting. Saying ‘Hello’ and following me in.

And so we rode the teeny-tiny elevator in awkward silence, until the doors slid open and he bolted out and I was left thinking: Wesley doesn’t like me very much. But he was the only art and culture writer before I arrived. Maybe he sees me as a threat.

Now in the office, I reach for my cup of coffee, take a sip and glance around. Printers buzz. People whisper. The strip lighting on the ceiling flickers. I was surprised when I first walked in here: it doesn’t look like a portal to an online English language magazine that syndicates its stories all over the world. It looks more like a makeshift employment agency, one bounced electricity payment away from closure. It’s a sprawling, messy open-plan room for us plebs, a glass-walled office for Hyacinth, a meeting room, two bathrooms and a poky little kitchen.