Adults. Emma Jane Unsworth

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СКАЧАТЬ looked back at my phone. I smiled at Suzy smiling.

      Art pulled himself out from under my legs, sat on the side of the bed and whipped off the condom. He rubbed his face. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We have a problem.’

      I finished my comment, a simple, single red heart emoji – the classic choice; just … enough – clicked the phone to sleep and looked at him. Art said: ‘You are on that thing when we eat, you are on it when we watch TV, you are on it when we go for a walk, and now you are on it when we are having sex.’

      ‘It was a slow bit!’

      ‘It was sex, Jenny. Not a film.’

      I looked at him and tried a cute: ‘Sometimes it’s as good as the movies, though.’

      ‘Mmmmmmmm.’

      It was a long sound, that mmmm. Like a door buzzer, or a hornet trapped in a jar. I watched the sunlight on the wall flicker. Summer was almost over. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. There was a time – even in my life – when that slot would have been reserved for a lover.

      Art said: ‘Are you in love with someone on the internet?’

      ‘No!’ I said. Which was almost not a lie.

      He said: ‘I’ve noticed a direct correlation between you growing more distant from me and closer to your phone.’

      He said: ‘It’s like I can’t get to you when you’re there. Your eyes are all wide and you’re plugged in like a happy little robot.’

      He said: ‘Except you’re not happy.’

      ‘How do you know I’m not happy?’

      ‘Because you’re never satisfied.’

      I took his penis in my hand. ‘Maybe that’s just me.’

       I WALK

      back into the main office. It’s all creative types in here – advertising and media, mostly. There’s a lot of lino. A lot of dachshunds. Lots of plants that are real-imitating-plastic. You see men with visible pocket watches high-fiving over MacBook Airs and you worry about what this means for evolution.

      I work for an online magazine, The Foof, and it is as awful as it sounds. My editor, Mia, is fucking terrifying – stupidly; admirably? – socially fearless. I think this is her seventh or eighth start-up. Art called her a ‘delectable oaf’ (not to her face). I’m anxious to please her because I’m an approval junkie and have a teacher–pupil dynamic with people in positions of authority. You should see me getting a smear test – it’s like I’m trying to sell them my super-clean vagina. I thought I’d offended Mia on Friday when I told her UV uplighters for teeth were imbecilic, unaware that she was wearing one (I thought she was slurring on her anti-depressants) – but then she liked one of my pictures on Sunday and I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew everything was okay. Saturday was fraught – I spent a lot of it questioning my whole life and worth. Even though I don’t respect Mia, I fear her and professionally that’s ultimately a good thing because it means I want to impress her, so I give my work my all. I’m only really effective around people I want to impress. Otherwise, my energy deadens. I’d churn out dross if I actually felt comfortable around my boss. Vague social terror: that’s my motivation.

      The Foof has a permanent office here, in the loosest sense. There’s a sign – FOOF TOWERS – in fluffy pink letters across the back wall. The sign could be taken down at any given moment. So could the wall.

      I make my way across the main space to my desk. I don’t come in every day so I share with Gemma, who writes the horoscopes and product reviews and is so cheerful I want to punch her. (Sorry, I don’t want you thinking that just because I work in the media I’m a fucking idiot.)

      I sit down and start to compose an email, which is what I do after any unsatisfactory social interaction.

      DRAFTS

      Subject: That Croissant

      Dear Breakfast Maven, Queen of the Granola,

      You know and I know that croissant was prehistoric. It was yesterday’s batch, that’s why you were trying to palm it off on me. I deserve a fresh croissant, do I not, for my £3.50? In America, that kind of hesitation within the service industry would be unthinkable. JUST GIVE ME THE CROISSANT I WANT NEXT TIME, FOR THE LOVE OF COMMON DECENCY.

      Kind regards,

      Jenny McLaine

      The Foof (columnist)

       THEY SAY

      it is crucial to incorporate mindfulness into your daily routine. I like to get on it every few hours, just to be sure. After I’ve written the email, I take a deep breath and count to ten in Hindi. I even have an app to remind me to take time out regularly. It shouts TAKE A BREAK, BABY! in an Austin Powers voice (I chose the voice from six options). It’s a little obnoxious, but it’s good to know something cares.

      I check le status of mon croissant. Thirty-five likes. Dear sweet Christ alive. You’ve got to be kidding. The thirties are disastrous numbers, they really are.

      As I’m studying the post, I realise that I have automatically tagged WerkHaus and, while I am displeased with the morning’s events, I do not want anyone losing their job on my account. I’ve seen An Inspector Calls – several times – with my mother. I know how much people in the service industry can take things to heart. My life is a perfect war zone of potential consequences.

      I go into Edit Post and de-tag the location. Too late! Someone from WerkHaus – Joel from The Little Green Bento Den – has commented:

       Was it the hench one with the underbite? She’s a right Orc

      Fucking Joel. I consider what to do. I don’t want Suzy Brambles or any other notables thinking I am endorsing this bile. I also don’t want to get into an argument with Joel that could last several hours and get my blood up. I’ve sacrificed entire emotional half-days before now to online altercations. And I’ve got a column to write. Digital is not at odds with the flesh, as some might argue; this all has a very physical effect on me.

      I type back at Joel:

       Putting the miso in misogynist as ever, I see

      There. That, I think, is smart and final. No coming back from that. Now we can all relax.

      I stare at my comment.

      Oh god. No it’s not smart at all. It’s over-handled and ham-fisted, like all my comments. Do you even get miso in a bento box? Fuck my life.

      I delete the comment and Joel’s comment and just as I’m regretting deleting Joel’s comment (it looks cowardly, to delete without comment, and he’s the kind of fucker СКАЧАТЬ