Serena Malcolm

An awkward silence falls,

Forty-two missed calls, and my manager looks vexed,

My fingers shake as I try to discreetly send a text,

—I’M IN A MEETING

But relief is fleeting as the screen lights up for the forty-third time;

—PROVE IT

the new message chimes,

I dig a bitten nail into the off button,

Relish the dying of the blue light.

But I know that I will pay for that tonight.

To my left my colleague shifts in her chair,

And I can feel every single hot stare,

But I dare not meet their eyes,

Cannot compromise the guise,

I clear my throat, smooth the tweed against my quaking thighs,

and refix my saccharine daytime smile,

“Next slide.”