The modicum of privacy created by the cubicle wall between middle manager, Ezra Tart, and the CEO’s executive assistant, Brenda Callahan, did little to prevent Ezra from hearing company gossip. Brenda had a crush on her boss, Craig, a man whom Ezra considered of only the slightest merit, unless there is redemption in greed. Ezra suspected Craig had taken advantage of Brenda’s infatuation then discarded her when he lost interest. “I never meant to hurt you,” Ezra imagined Craig saying.
Yet Brenda seemed determined to self destruct. Her skirts were short, her heels spiked, and the necklines of her blouses had grown so deep that Ezra had to look at her forehead when he talked to her. He dropped a document off at her desk and caught a glimpse of the cover of a glamour magazine. Kim Kardashian was front and center, pouty lips painted red, and a caption read: “Hungry for Love? Food Really is the Way to a Man’s Heart.” Of course, thought Ezra, when Brenda made a pie for Craig’s birthday.
“Chocolate bourbon pecan,” he’d heard her whisper to a co-worker.
In the morning, Brenda had moved things around in the crowded refrigerator to create a spot for the pie. Covered tightly in plastic wrap, a yellow post-it note was stuck on the top with her initials and in bold print: “DO NOT EAT.” Ezra knew from her whispering that she intended to present Craig with the pie in private at the end of the work day.
Ezra looked at the pie. The crust was homemade, imperfectly crimped around the glass edge of the pan. Perhaps he could spoon out a bite from under the surface, redistribute the filling, make it look like someone had accidentally crushed the pie with a lunch box. Nothing a dollop of whipping cream couldn’t cover. Ezra’s acts of sabotage were still mostly minor league – a stolen yogurt or a missing but re-creatable document. He sighed and took an apple from the table.
Ezra ate lunch out, distanced himself from the pie, perused the dessert menu.
After lunch the refrigerator was nearly empty. The pie sat alone on the bottom shelf.
Ezra swiped a monogrammed pen that had been inadvertently left behind after a meeting where he, as usual, was expected to attend but not contribute.
Late in the afternoon, Brenda sent out a company email calling everyone to Craig’s office for sparkling cider and song. Ezra waited briefly before joining his colleagues and hung back at the edge of the crowd. He could see Brenda at the front, standing beside smug Craig in his office, the two of them flanked by blue and green balloons.
“This girl,” said Craig to the group. “Best admin ever. Am I right?”
Brenda tilted her head toward her boss, kicked up a heel. “Ah shucks,” she joked, and stroked his arm.
Ezra broke. He didn’t wait for his glass of cider, didn’t wait to hear the toasts. He moved determinately to the break room, opened the refrigerator and slid out the pie. Grabbed a fork from the drawer.
“Good Lord,” Ezra moaned, after his first bite. He had driven to a vast parking lot a few minutes from the office and stopped in the shade. The pie was phenomenal, rich caramelized chocolate custard, not too sweet, slightly boozy. Whole toasted pecans carefully ringed the surface.
He ate it all, scraped the glass plate clean of flaky crust.
What a shame, he thought, and dropped the now-empty pie plate into the dumpster, heard it break against the bottom. Craig didn’t know what he was missing.
Jeanie Hundertmark is a ridiculously talented procrastinator who sometimes writes, mostly short stories. She lives in Paso Robles and is currently working on a novel of connected stories. Jeanie is a member of the SLO Night Writers, for writers at all levels in all genres. Find them online at slonightwriters.org.
