Who: Michael Davison and
Paris HartWhat: "Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care."
Where: FABULOUS headquarters
When: Monday after lunch
Design meetings were always pretty intense and, today, Paris was running this one alone. There were concept boards, fabric swatches, past issues, fashion prototypes and samples, all spread out messily on the board room table as they brainstormed for some future issues and special editions. They always had one right at the start of a new season and for Christmas. It just felt like it was going on forever. Michael hadn't seen Paris all morning. He had been tied up in meetings and on the phone right up until this meeting was scheduled. The day felt like it was going on forever, and despite the couple of doses of Advil Michael had taken, his head was still pounding and his eyes just didn't want to stay open. To top it all off, he felt sick to the stomach and hot now, like there was no air circulating the room. Paris was seated at the head of sprawling table with Paris beside him in front of a yellow legal notebook and an iPad. He was usually so on the ball, taking written notes as well as bookingmarking things on the iPad to research later. Looking at the little screen felt like it was boring laserbeams through his brain, though, and he was actually sweating, his lavender business shirt sticking to him and he had to fight temptation to loosen his tie to help him breathe better.
He couldn't be getting sick. For the past few days, he had been unusually tired but he had also been working himself to the bone and fighting it too. He was usually a pretty deep and sound sleeper. His family joked that he could sleep through a hurricane, and it probably wasn't far off the mark. With Gen having her hands full these past few weeks and Paris taking the reigns, it meant Michael automatically stepped up to help Paris with whatever he needed. That was his job, and hadn't had anything else planned anyway. But today, it was hard to deny. First there was sleeping through his alarm, which he
never did, and then there was actually showing up to work with his shirt inside out, that Paris flagged him on as soon as he walked in the door. There had been typing up a whole mail merge to the new sponsors he had gained and then closing without saving it. There had been the hayfever-like sniffles on and off, but he had convinced himself it was just the new floral arrangement delivered that morning in the foyer of the executive floor. One could only delude themselves with so many excuses for so long until it got ridiculous, however.
Now his brain was actually trying to tune Paris' voice out when usually Michael just absorbed it automatically. There was also the way the hipster aromatherapy-loving shoe columnist next to him was scratching the edge of her pen back and forth across the spirals of her notepad that was driving him up the wall. He shifted in his seat and drunk down the last of his water so he could top his glass up from the communal jug nearby. That was when, right in the peak of a brainstorm volley that was actually full of some awesome ideas, that Michael feared he was about to be sick. Paris had
just been relaying some things to him to note when it happened too and he paused mid-sentence with his pen with an inner panic. He wasn't going to wait the risk out, though. He dropped his pen onto the top of his notebook, already scrambling from his seat with a hastily mumbled, "I'm sorry, please excuse me," right before bolting for the door.
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