How to Human 101 - First Day Off

I have been working here for approximately three months.

This means I now get invited to parties and events.81Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrQKcgwZsDP
Which I politely decline.

Karen is still mean. This is consistent.

Also, my landlord raised my rent, and I could not afford anything.

I tried selling my car.

That was a mistake.

That was an extremely overwhelming experience involving strangers, questions, and negotiation. Never again.

Now Cheddar and I live in the expensive apartments with Haley.

Her husband pays the rent.

Haley and I contribute by buying groceries.

This feels like a fair system.

“Jennifer!” Haley calls sweetly from down the hall.

“What?” I reply.

She twirls into the living room wearing a short red dress.

It is red-red. Dangerous red.

I access the situation.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask.

“Today is our day off!”

I blink.

“Okay.”

“I,” she says dramatically, grabbing her purse, “am going to a club.”

“That seems loud.”

“It is.”

“You enjoy that?”

“I do!”

She beams at me like I am missing out on oxygen.

“You can help yourself to anything,” she adds. “There’s a coffee bar on the main floor. Gym, pool, spa. And if you need anything, call Luis. He’s been here enough times to know where everything is.”

“…Okay.”

She kisses the air near my cheek and disappears.

The apartment goes quiet.

Just me.

And Cheddar.

He looks at me from the couch like we have inherited a kingdom.

“I might use the jacuzzi,” I tell him.

He slow-blinks.

Encouraging.

Later.

The elevator ride down is unsettlingly smooth.

I press the button for the spa level.

Why does this building have a spa level.

The doors open to soft lighting and instrumental music that sounds like it was composed specifically to calm rich people.

There is a sign that says:

Residents Only

I technically qualify.

This is strange.

The jacuzzi is large. Circular. Steaming gently like it is thinking important thoughts.

I sit on the edge.

I touch the water.

Warm.

Acceptable temperature.

I lower myself in slowly.

Oh.

This is… good.

My shoulders drop without permission.

The quiet hum of the jets is steady. Predictable.

No crying.

No Karen.

No clipboard inspectors.

Just water.

I lean back.

For once, I am not pretending to be professional.

I am not analyzing anyone.

I am not “on.”

I close my eyes.

This might be the first time in three months that my brain is not sprinting.

Cheddar would hate this water.

I open one eye and glance around at the empty spa.

No one is here.

Good.

I sink a little deeper.

Maybe this is what normal people do on their days off.

Maybe this is what balance feels like.

I could get used to this.

“Excuse me, miss?” a soft voice says.

I open my eyes.

Oh.

There is another person in the jacuzzi.

She looks tired. Corporate tired. The kind of tired that costs money to maintain.

I shift slightly.

Oh.

There is also a woman standing beside the jacuzzi holding a notepad.

A notepad.

“Can I get you something while you’re here?” she asks pleasantly.

“What do you mean?” I reply.

“Would you like a snack? Perhaps a drink?”

Oh.

“I was not aware snacks were permitted in the jacuzzi.”

“Mmhm,” she says, as if this is common knowledge.

The tired woman across from me barely lifts a hand.

“I’ll have a mocktail,” she murmurs, “and some fruit.”

“Got it.” The notepad woman writes quickly, then looks at me.

“…What are my options?” I ask.

She flips a page.

“We have fresh fruit, charcuterie boards, small sandwiches, sparkling water, infused water, smoothies, mocktails—”

“This feels illegal,” I say.

She smiles politely.

“It is included.”

Included.

Included is a dangerous word.

“…I would like fruit,” I say cautiously. “And water. The regular kind.”

“Sparkling or still?”

“Still. I do not trust aggressive water.”

She writes that down without judgment and walks away.

The tired woman across from me snorts softly.

“I said the same thing my first week here,” she says.

“You live here?” I ask.

“Unfortunately.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The jets hum steadily.

She studies me.

“You’re new,” she says.

“Yes.”

“With a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Tech husband?”

“No.”

“Divorced settlement?”

“No.”

She blinks. “Then how are you affording this place?”

“I am not,” I say honestly. “I live with my coworker.”

She nods slowly, like that explains something.

“…You look relaxed,” she adds.

“I am currently submerged in hot water and unsupervised. This is optimal.”

That earns a small smile from her.

The notepad woman returns with a tray.

Real glassware.

Cut fruit arranged in a way that suggests someone cared about angles.

She sets everything on a small floating platform between us.

This is too much power.

I pick up a slice of watermelon.

It is cold. Perfectly sweet.

I look around the quiet, expensive spa.

Three months ago, I was panicking about fake credentials.

Now I am eating luxury watermelon in a jacuzzi.

Life is extremely confusing.

The tired woman closes her eyes.

“You know,” she says softly, “I see you around. You’re the quiet one.”

“That is accurate.”

“You don’t look like you belong here.”

“I agree.”

She opens one eye.

“I don’t either.”

We sit with that for a moment.

“You look very tired,” I say.

She exhales slowly, like I just pressed a button she’s been holding down.

“I am,” she says. “I’ve been up all night. And most of the morning. Again.”

She leans her head back against the tile.

“I’m in residency. Hospital shifts. Overnight rotations. It’s… a lot.”

I process this.

Hospital.

Patients.

Charts. Emergencies. Fluorescent lighting.

I do not fully understand her job. That is not my line of work.

But I do understand tired.

“Doctors don’t make that much money,” I say cautiously. “At least not immediately.”

She huffs a tired laugh.

“Yeah. Not during residency.”

“So,” I continue carefully, “how do you afford to be here? And… why not request more days off?”

She opens one eye at me.

“I don’t live here,” she says. “My mom owns the building.”

Oh.

“That explains the jacuzzi snacks,” I reply.

She smiles faintly.

“Being the owner’s daughter has its perks.”

“And the days off?”

She looks at the water.

“My boss isn’t just going to hand me time off because I’m tired. Everyone’s tired. That’s the culture. You push through it.”

Push through it.

That feels familiar.

“I could not,” I say honestly.

She glances at me.

“I almost walked out of work during a crying episode this week,” I continue. “Because the sound frequency was too sharp.”

She blinks.

“…What?”

“I left and hid under a coworker’s desk,” I clarify.

She stares at me for three full seconds.

And then—

She laughs.

Not mean.

Not mocking.

Just startled.

“That’s… kind of iconic,” she says.

“It was not meant to be.”

She studies me for a moment longer.

“So what do you do?” she asks.

“I am a therapist.”

The word lands between us.

She squints.

“You look twelve.”

“I have been told I do not look authoritative.”

“And you just… left your session?”

“I delegated.”

She sits up slightly, interest replacing exhaustion.

“That’s not pushing through.”

“No.”

“That’s… setting a boundary.”

I frown slightly.

“I was avoiding sensory rage.”

“That still counts.”

We sit in the quiet hum again.

Steam curls between us.

She speaks softer this time.

“I don’t even know what a boundary would look like for me.”

That sentence doesn’t sound like something she says often.

I look at her.

Really look.

Sharp cheekbones. Dark circles. Tension in her jaw even in hot water.

“You could start small,” I say. “Like not answering emails after a certain hour. Or asking for one protected sleep day per week.”

She gives me a skeptical look.

“They’ll judge me.”

“They will,” I say. “But they are already exhausting you.”

She goes quiet.

The fruit tray floats slightly toward her. She absently picks up a strawberry.

“…You don’t look like you belong here,” she says again.

“I live here because I cannot afford rent,” I reply.

She smiles.

“I come here because I cannot afford to fall apart at work.”

That sits heavier than the steam.

For a moment, it doesn’t feel like luxury.

It feels like two exhausted people hiding in hot water.

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