It's like Bridget Jones' Diary, but with a super-powered vigilante.

March 21, 2005

Pride and vague guilt

I’m sitting in my office staring out at the Bay and all the container ships, doing absolutely nothing. The only item on my agenda is a meeting with the girls from Creative to go over a proposed print teaser ad campaign for QuantumWorks. I feel like a thief, sometimes. The Company pays me an indecent salary to just sit around and play Game Boy Advanced and hunt around on Amazon.

I can see how a limbo situation like this would be maddening to a hard-charger like Margo, somebody whose identity is wrapped up in her work, but I’m not that ambitious, and my identity issues are a little more complex, if you know what I mean.

I’m not calling Emma Casperson. She can call me if she wants, but I’m not doing it. It’s been over a week since we slept together, and I haven’t heard a thing from her. I called JC and Wendy to “check in” yesterday and Wendy didn’t even mention Emma. Either Emma didn’t tell Wendy we slept together, or she did tell her, but told her not to mention it.

Whatever. I’m not calling Emma.

Not going to do it.

Maybe I should buy some shoes.