The Sphinx in Accounting

Margaret stood before the glass wall of her boss's office, watching him hold court like some corporate oracle. Chen, with his rimless glasses and perfectly pressed suits, had perfected the art of speaking without saying anything—a human sphinx guarding the department's budget with riddles about synergies and paradigms.

"What's the Q4 projection, really?" he'd asked her earlier, eyes narrowing behind those lenses. "Not the spreadsheet number. The *truth*."

She'd given him a truth. He hadn't liked it.

The door opened behind her, and Brad lumbered through, a bear of a man in a too-tight dress shirt, sweat darkening his underarms. Brad, who'd been passed over for the promotion Margaret had received six months ago. Brad, who still left passive-aggressive notes on the communal fridge about "proper labeling protocols."

"Meeting with Chen?" Brad asked, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Always."

"He's in a mood. Cut the marketing budget again."

"I heard."

They stood in awkward silence until Margaret's phone buzzed—a text from her ex-husband about the cat. Their cat, technically, though she'd been the one to feed it and clean its litter for seven years. Now Marcus wanted custody because his new girlfriend was allergic, and wasn't that just perfect?

"Everything okay?" Brad asked, surprising her with something almost like genuine concern.

"Marcus wants the cat."

"The asshole."

She laughed, startlingly loud in the quiet hallway. "You think?"

"I think," Brad said slowly, "that you should go in there and tell Chen exactly what the numbers are. And then go home, get your cat, and maybe we could grab a drink later."

The sphinx inside the glass office looked up, caught her eye, and raised an eyebrow. Behind her, Brad waited, bear-like and unexpectedly decent. Somewhere across town, a cat named Sandwich waited for someone to come home.

Margaret straightened her posture. "Chen," she said, pushing open the door, "let's talk about those projections."