I Forgot to Take the Plant

So finally, I was laid off.

Such shocking news.

As if I hadn’t seen it coming forever.

There were no explanations. I hit my targets. I was punctual. I even put on makeup every single goddamn day so customers would see me happy and fresh—even on days when a gun felt more useful than lipstick.

I did my best to be social. I even said “hi, hon” every morning to people I wanted to call stupid bitches.

It was 2 p.m., and my shift was supposed to start at 3. I came early. I had a meeting to organize, a sale to close, documents to prepare. I was talking to the client on the phone when a notification popped up on my desktop screen: a PDF file in our Telegram group.

—Don’t worry about it, ma’am. I totally understand. You can’t pay this amount all at once. We’ll consider the possible options in the meeting. I also know how important this purchase is for you.

My voice trembled.

There was a list—green background, little flowers—of sales managers to be let go. My name was bolded at the top. Such an ugly choice of color.

“Do you think we can hold the meeting another day?” she asked. “I mean, there’s a lot we should think about.”

“Sure. I’ll see you at 6 p.m.”

I wasn’t the only one but That didn’t make it better.

I was the first of twelve people laid off that month, and one of forty-eight in recent months. The first group had been fired four month ago. One of them was a tall guy who sat next to me.

He came to work an hour late every day. Spent thirty minutes making coffee, then smoke—otherwise he couldn’t start working. He talked about the weather, his lunch, and how important it was for the government to design a job system for night owls. In between, he watered the plant on his desk.

Every day, he talked to everyone—and maybe two clients. But every month, he closed a big sale.

He wasn’t at his desk when the names were announced. When he came back, he put on his coat without hesitation and left without a word. He left his plant behind. I watered it every day after that.

My client kept calling. Over and over.

My friend—if I could call a colleague a friend—kept telling me not to leave like this. To talk to my manager. To talk to HR. To ask for a reason. I had to be warned three times before they could fire me. I wanted a second chance.

A girl was crying at her desk. Another was screaming at HR.

I gathered my things: my mug—the tea inside it still warm—my notebook, the snacks I’d brought for the day. I left my nameplate on the desk untouched. I couldn’t find my pen. I wondered whether I should take the plant or leave it.

A middle-aged woman came to my desk, held my hand, and said I deserved better than this. That there were so many opportunities out there. She’d worked there for eight years. She’d recently had liposuction and lost about forty-four pounds—though honestly, she looked the same.

I thought about my cat, who’d recently gained weight. Can cats get liposuction too? I didn’t ask.

I signed a document stating: “I have decided to leave my job and end my cooperation with the company for personal reasons.”

I didn’t feel like fighting it.

I just wanted to go home. I wanted a cup of hot tea.

Or maybe that was something else.

I tried to remember an Instagram post that said life isn’t about failures—it’s just experience, or something like that. I left without saying goodbye. Anyway, I didn’t like them much.

I left the office around 3 p.m. My shadow was waiting for me on the street. I thought about going to my parents’ house. I’d seen it in a movie—a girl loses her job, goes home, rests for a few days, then comes back like a heroine.

I wished rest could save me.

I knew it wouldn’t.

What should I make for dinner? I could eat it while watching The Office. I’d heard that in the U.S., letting workers go is normal—once you’re no longer useful, you’re done. Maybe I was living there now. Maybe it was just culture shock.

My cat was surprised to see me. He was sitting in the dark; I’d forgotten to leave a light on again. I couldn’t explain what had happened. He didn’t wait for an explanation.

I needed rest.

My couch was the most uncomfortable thing ever—basically wood with a thin layer of fabric. Too small for anyone taller than 150 cm. I’d bought it only because the color matched the rest of the furniture and it didn’t look lame.

I couldn’t reach the light. Did my house even have lights?

I lay on the floor and hugged my legs. My cat was searching my bag for food.

I forgot to take the plant.

Someone else will take good care of it.