Winter Love

WINTER LOVE

by E.C. Dorgan

Content warnings: Gore, blood, violence, death

This 21st century has been good to us, I remind myself, while Hans and I wait in the boardroom for the meeting to start. We’ve slotted half an hour—longer than usual, but this new product update matters. “You must be Wendy.” A woman with sharp heels breezes in, smelling like meat. “What you’ve achieved with the company—remarkable!” I fix a smile and agree. She walks us through the details—normally, my assistant manages updates, but Version Six will be our first since going public two months ago. When we sign off, the woman smiles wide. “This is going to make you even bigger.” Hans reaches under the table and squeezes my hand. We have millions of dollars, and tens of thousands of followers, but we’re still hungry.

We didn’t start out like this. The business was an afterthought—something to keep us busy and make us respectable in our new life, like the kid. We were still getting used to being parents, then. Sometimes, I think we still are. Now that I’m reading parenting books, I understand these things better. Logan seems to be developing normally. But he’s an odd creature, that teenage boy. 

In the early days, Hans worked from a laptop in the old kitchen. He’d upload inventory to the online store while helping me debone meat. Back then, we sold things you could smell and touch. Now our kitchen is twice the size of our old house. The product we’re selling is virtual. 

•••

We’ve learned over time—business isn’t just business. It’s also the charities and the soirees. Tonight, there’s an event for the hospital. Hans sits on the board, and we’re among the biggest donors. 

I’m in French blue tulle, dripping sapphires—my stylist says they’re striking with my glimmering eyes. She also says a palette is important. Mine runs French blue to indigo. Though I’ve never worn clothes easily. 

The event’s like any other—glittery couples crowding around us, self-congratulatory speeches, tiny plates made into art instead of sustenance.

“Are you ready for Version Six?” A woman with pointed red nails leans into me.

I’m struggling to slice a poached pear—have never been one for cutlery.

“You’re not worried about your competitors?”

I sniff for the usual jealousy, but there isn’t any. I look up and recognize her face. She’s on TV—one of the talking heads who will opine, tomorrow, whether Version Six is a hit or a miss. I fix a smile and fake a relaxed yawn, though in truth, I’m pushing down a hunger pang.

The woman reaches into her purse for crimson lipstick. She refreshes her lips, then smacks. “Well, you might want to watch your back.”

•••

We’re up early on launch day. We eat brittle toast in the dark, looking out the kitchen windows. The sun isn’t up, but I can make out the trees just beyond. They’re why we chose this house, with its glass walls and tamed shrubs. Sometimes, at night, I step out into the yard, look out past the fence, and breathe in looming forest. 

Hans goes upstairs to get dressed. He returns, magnificent in a navy and black suit with bone cufflinks. I bury my nose in his armpit, then run my fingers down his starched seams. For a moment, we’re not in our glass kitchen—it’s just the two of us, in the woods again. Then our driver rings the doorbell, and I slip on my indigo-framed glasses—stylist-recommended, even though my vision is better than perfect. I walk out the door in alligator shoes.

The rest of the day is a rush. We’re radiant in the live-stream version launch. The IT works, and the audience claps and aahs when it’s supposed to. Hans shines on the stage. His eyes are too bright for the cameras. Such white teeth. I can taste his hunger, can’t look away. I force myself to smile and engage the audience. All the key influencers are re-tweeting us. When I tear my eyes from Hans, and look at my phone, my followers are up—first by 30K, then 70K. The thrill gives me goosebumps, though my face is all sweat from the spotlights.

The PR team calls us glorious. Not that I need the affirmation—Hans’s look, the new followers, they’re enough. The market agrees—our stock rises 18%. By the end of the day, our eyes are burned from camera flashes, our ears ring from popped balloons, and our fingers ache from cutting ribbons in front of screens. We’re leaving the office when my assistant catches me with an article. The journalist with sharp nails has weighed in—she’s calling us the “Number One Power Couple.” 

The calls and text messages start on the drive home—first from our financial team, then from our lawyers. Someone’s buying up your shares. We’re turning into the driveway of our house when my assistant forwards a new tweet. 

The journalist from the soiree is reporting that Ambra and Gregg Rickie are trying to get control of our company—and they’re launching their own product update, Version Nine, in two weeks. She’s updated the headline: “Which Power Couple Will Win?”

•••

We’ve been competing with Ambra and Gregg Rickie for years. We started out at the same time, working out of cramped kitchens. Now we both live in glass houses and sit on boards. They call us “thought leaders” and give us awards. Hans and I have more followers; Ambra and Gregg have a higher stock price. We’re all experts at fixing our faces for the camera, and our stomachs are hot and hungry. But that’s where the similarities stop. Ambra and Gregg grew up with butter in their soft mouths, in plush, carpeted houses. Their flesh is rough, and their eyes don’t glimmer. 

Continued in Augur Magazine Issue 6.2...