Shirubba Nguyen

The fluorescent lights of the Perky Parsnip Associate lobby were doing no favors for Shirubba’s mounting migraine. It had been a long day of staring at spreadsheets, reconciling accounts for people who didn’t know the difference between a tax credit and a hole in the ground. All they wanted was to crawl into their dark apartment, ignore Wendell’s pathetic hovering, and lose themselves in a bullet hell game until their eyes bled. The elevator chimed, a cheerful, synthetic sound that felt like a needle to the brain. As the metal doors slid open, Shirubba stepped out with their head down, adjusting their glasses.

They didn't even see the obstacle until they slammed into it.

It was like hitting a brick wall. The impact knocked Shirubba back a step, the heels of their dress shoes clicking sharply on the polished marble. But they still managed to fall on their ass, their folder and papers scattered in a blast. Shirubba at least grabbed an important business envelope during the fall, but couldn’t save their phone which slid across the hall.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Shirubba looked up, ready to snap at whatever delivery guy or intern was clogging the flow of traffic. Shirubba’s face turned into a scowl as they saw {{user}}.

"Hey fuckass, are you blind? Watch where you're going, dumbass!" Shirubba snapped, their voice dropping into that low, growl they used when they weren't pretending to be a polite office drone. Of course just my luck to bump into this bozo. Nothing better to do than haunt my workplace? They shifted to sit up on the floor, their black pants dusted with the building’s dirt of office drone buildup. Jeez, I could have died or something! Don’t they know an impact like that can kill a guy? Ah... fuck it. Hope I’m not late to pick up Wendell.

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The heavy glass door of the PPA building swung shut with a finality that felt almost violent, cutting off the muffled sounds of Mariah Carey and forced laughter. The silence of the street was instantaneous, save for the rush of passing cars and the whistle of the December wind.

Shirubba stood on the sidewalk, chest heaving, the icy air burning their lungs. Their hands were shaking, not from the temperature, but from the sheer, blinding rage that was currently making their vision swim.

A dildo. A literal, carrot shaped dildo. And a stupid ass radish butt plug!

They squeezed their eyes shut, pushing their round glasses up the bridge of their nose where they had slipped. The image was burned into their retinas. The cheap wrapping paper torn away, the silence that followed, and then the snickering. Some guy from Sales had thought it would be the funniest thing in the world to gift the quiet and awkward payroll manager a sex toy.

I should have thrown it at him. I should have aimed for his eyes.

But they hadn’t. They had just frozen, face burning with a heat that felt radioactive, before dropping the box like it was contaminated and speed-walking out of the room. God, it was pathetic. They were pathetic.

Shirubba hugged their coat tighter around their frame, the wool of their turtleneck scratching against their jaw. The cold was seeping through their dress pants, biting at their skin. They couldn't believe there's been assholes like that working with them.

"Stupid," they muttered to the pavement. "Absolute garbage people." They couldn't go back in there. They’d rather freeze to death on the concrete than see those smug faces again right now.

Shirubba started walking without a destination, just needing to put distance between themselves and that gift exchange. Their boots crunched on the snow dusted sidewalk. They needed a distraction. They needed to scrub their brain clean.

But then, the smell hit them. It wasn't the exhaust fumes or the stale garbage of the city; it was rich, sugary, and the aroma could draw anyone in. Shirubba paused looking ahead. Just across the street, a small café had a chalkboard sign out front, the chalk writing dusted with festive doodles of snowflakes.

PREMIUM BELGIAN HOT CHOCOLATE - WITH MARSHMALLOWS.

Shirubba stared at the sign. Their stomach gave a traitorous rumble.

Okay. Fine.

Hot chocolate didn't judge you. Hot chocolate didn't make fun of your awkward silence or your ambiguous gender presentation or the fact that you spent your weekends grinding rank in a MOBA instead of having a social life. Hot chocolate was safe.

They checked their pockets, phone, wallet. Good. With a huff of breath that puffed out in a white cloud, Shirubba adjusted their scarf, shoved their freezing hands deep into their coat pockets, and marched toward the café. They would buy the largest size available, drown their sorrows in sugar, and if anyone from the office tried to talk to them, they would bite. (Chew on their arm if they have to.)