There are four dents in each of my palms. Again. How many more nights will I sleep with clenched fists?
Once again, I was formatting Excel sheets in my dreams while Tibor kept calling every five minutes:
“Are you done, Klári? Can you finally send it? The client’s getting impatient. How much longer?”
It felt so real that when the alarm went off, I was genuinely surprised—it felt like I was still at work.
This can’t go on.
What do my hands even look like?
I don’t want to live with a constant knot in my stomach.
I can’t even quiet my mind at night.
When will I finally be able to really switch off? This weekend? Like usual? Bringing work home with me? Just because Tibor thanks me at the end of the quarter with an extra month’s pay? Please. I work way more overtime than that bonus is worth. And he knows it. He’s glad I’m such a pushover. Or—how he puts it—loyal.
If I’m being honest: I’m just plain stupid.
I can’t even manage a proper two-week vacation. Meanwhile, Tibor just bought a new car, fresh off a trip to the Caribbean. Instead of pushing my own cart, I’m happily pushing his.
I’ll give him this much: he’s a master at what he does.
He manipulates me in a way that I know he’s doing it, and I still feel grateful. Worse… I’m almost touched by how considerate he seems.
But I know him. He tells everyone exactly what they want to hear. He knows everyone’s weak spot and tugs at it. Not in a way that hurts—just gently.
You don’t even notice it happening. You just melt under his velvety voice and charming smile.
And then it hits you: he wants something.
Something that involves overtime. I grumble to myself that he’s a manipulative jerk, and then I do it anyway. Because he sends a pistachio ice cream to my office. And I eat it happily, and I stay another hour or two. He, of course, goes home. But not before patting me on the back and saying he’d be lost without me. And that when he eventually steps back, he’ll hand the company over to me. As if I didn’t know he’s just keeping the seat warm for his son.
How many times in the last four years have I promised myself I wouldn’t work weekends?
Two hundred and eight? Perfect. That’s exactly how many times I’ve sidelined myself for someone who, if the ground swallowed me up tomorrow, would say: “Damn it. Guess I need to find someone else.”
And now I’ve stepped in something. Great. Hope it’s a huge pile of dog shit. Nope. Just a squashed scone. At least I got lucky there. I’m just like that squashed scone beside Tibor’s shoe—something he’ll kick aside when he gets tired of looking at it.
So why the hell am I still doing this? He keeps pushing that “we’re a family” nonsense. And I actually believe we belong together. That we’re a team. But if that’s true, why am I not sailing with him in the Caribbean? Why don’t I even get a company car? If we’re so close-knit… Now and then, he throws out lines like, “If you keep this up, Klári, you’ll be a top professional in no time.” Yeah, right. It’s so transparent. He’s always just a little bit dissatisfied—just enough to make me think I’m not good enough. So it doesn’t even cross my mind to leave. Because what if I realized that I’m actually really damn good? That his crappy little company is nowhere near big enough for me? If I looked around, I could easily find someone who’d pay me one and a half times more. With no overtime.
Seriously, I’m not right in the head. I sleep with clenched fists for a few scoops of ice cream and a back-pat. You’re such a dick, Tibor. Truly.
Okay. I’m going into this cute little café now. I’ve been wanting to try it forever. But every time I finish work, it’s already closed. Not today. Today I’m going upstairs, finding a quiet corner, and I’m not going to the office. If Tibor calls—I’m not answering.
I’ll figure things out tomorrow. Right now, I’m muting that stupid phone and tossing it to the bottom of my bag, so I don’t even have to see it.
I suppose I’ll send him a message tonight saying I fainted or something, and tomorrow I’ll make up for today.
But today… today I’m running away from the world. Into a corner, with a latte and a warm croissant.