Free Missed Connections by Tamara Mataya Page A

people trying to pique my interest that way. Besides, the other day, she started talking about her sex life in way too much detail and didn’t even stop when clients started coming in. It was super awkward.
    I was only nodding and not actively encouraging the conversation, but it still looked like we were both discussing inappropriate things at work—something Fern lectured me about later at length. She practically snarled at me when I told her the conversation had been one-sided.
    More of me being defensive.
    I sucked it up and apologized, and she promptly brought up her workshop again as a better place to “explore and learn.”
    “Uh, Sarah?” Phyllis finally gets tired of waiting for me to ask what’s up.
    “Yes?” I keep typing the promotional poster Fern asked me to create.
    “My name is spelled wrong in the receipt book.”
    That’s odd; I don’t usually make mistakes like that. “I’m sorry to hear that. Tear that page out and start a fresh one.” I change the font on the poster, aiming for something more whimsical.
    “It’s on every page.”
    “What?” Insurance companies look for any excuse not to pay out, and I’m always super careful about forms. But mistakes happen; maybe I did screw it up. I finally give her my full attention.
    She moves to the desk and thrusts the book in my face. “See?”
    I take it and hold it at a more comfortable distance. Sure enough, when I flip through, I see that the name I printed on each page is spelled the same. I double-check it against the spelling on her schedule on the computer, and it’s the same. That means it’s incorrect there as well. “Spell your last name for me.”
    “ H - e - n - d - e - r - s - e - n .”
    That’s what I wrote, and what’s on the computer. “Phyllis, that’s what’s printed on every page in the receipt book.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Not the printed name. The signature. It’s spelled wrong.”
    Is she fucking with me, pranking the new girl? “Uh, you’re the one who signed them.” I wait for her to laugh and tell me she “got me.”
    Her glare is glassy and condescending. “Why would I sign my own name wrong?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “I wouldn’t do that. No one would.”
    Does she seriously not remember signing her own name on every page? It was only a few days ago. “I don’t sign the sheets. I don’t normally even fill in the therapist’s name and RMT number. If you remember, you’re the one who had me do that for you, but I never signed your name.” I stop talking as she rips the book from my hands and stalks back to her chair.
    “Well, you did it this time and did it wrong.” She flips through. “It’s every page, Sarah.”
    What is her problem? Maybe if I prompt her, she’ll laugh and realize her mistake. “I know. But that’s not my writing.”
    “Well, it certainly isn’t mine!” she snaps. “What’s your agenda?”
    “My what?”
    Her eyes narrow. “Are you trying to get me fired or something?”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “Why would you sign my name wrong in the book?”
    “I didn’t! You did!”
    She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m onto you. If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work.” She steps up to the counter and looms over me. “I’m telling you right now, I’m here to stay. Better bitches than you have tried and failed to get rid of me, because you know what? Ziggy and Fern love me. I’ve got them wrapped around my little finger.”
    “Phyllis, you were the one who signed your name wrong. You signed your name on each page and left the rest for me to do.”
    She sneers. “Everyone knows the massage therapists are the ones who are supposed to fill out the receipt books. You just enter the amounts and the clients’ names. And the date. And yet you filled it out and messed it up.”
    “But you made me. Are you serious right now?” My hands shake from frustration.
    She opens her mouth to speak, but the phone rings and cuts her off.