A short fiction

Phlegm. It’s all I think about when I think of her. The scent of phlegm. Her hand, every time it enthusiastically slaps me on the shoulder in accolades, covered in bacteria. The feeling of bile rising through my oesophagus never goes away.

In the office – a converted garage teeming with spiders and inescapable dust bunnies, I walk in, and still smell the phleghm. But she’s out. The smell is bearable, which means she’s most likely dropping her children at swimming lessons.

Slightly gagging, I inspect my chair for insects. Some spider eggs nest innocently inside the plastic tubing. You have to search everywhere. First I drown them in bug spray. Then I grab twenty squares of toilet paper from the toilet. The squished spider eggs won’t get me if I hold them at absolute arm’s length. The office bin is too risky – the mother spider might realise what I’ve done and come after me. I run to the outside garden, and hurl the incriminating wad of toilet paper as hard as I can.

It’s a shaky experience, but I try to calm myself. There are authors to be pestered, manuscripts to throw out.

My seat faces a brick wall, away from the door. But I know she’s here now. I smell it. The scent of phlegm expands inside my nostrils. Then I hear it. That unmistakeable sound: the coarse heaving breaths, always through the mouth. She marches up to my desk.

How are you!

Angry and demanding, even when friendly. She launches into my tasks for the day, wiggling an aged finger in my face and poking me to emphasise various points. A big sniffle. Wipes her nose with the same hand she uses to continue pointing and poking at me. Leaves a runny dangler. From the left nostril. My insides are churning in a battle between frustration and nausea. The perpetual cold that I fear catching every single day against the indignation at my treatment. Are all working mothers this vile?

A long list of employment trails across my unwritten resume. I imagine the next job interview.

Why did you quit your last job?

Because every time I looked at my boss I wanted to vomit.