She backed me into the filing cabinet like a dog cornering its chew toy, spouting advice about aloe vera while her lavender hand lotion suffocated the air between us.
I’d already asked her nicely. I’d dodged, detoured, deflected. I even went to HR.
Nothing worked.
Until I stopped playing nice.
She crossed a line—and this time, I made sure she’d smell it.
And when the office standoff finally hit HR’s desk, they didn’t just find my garlic sandwich.
They found something about Brenda they hadn’t seen coming.
The Aura of Awkward: The New Anomaly in Account Management
The email landed Monday morning: “Please Welcome Brenda Milner – Account Management.” Standard stuff.
I glanced up from my Q3 projections, a familiar tightness in my shoulders. Another body for the already cramped open-plan office.
I’m Sarah, by the way. Senior Project Manager.
Usually, I thrive in the controlled chaos of deadlines and client demands. But some days, like today, the hum of fluorescent lights and the endless tapping of keyboards felt like a cheese grater on my last nerve.
Tom, my husband, always says I internalize too much. Easy for him to say from his quiet home office.
Lily, our fourteen-year-old, just rolls her eyes when I mention work stress, probably thinking about TikTok dances.
Brenda arrived mid-morning, a whirlwind of bright floral prints and a voice that seemed to bypass normal decibel levels. She was shown to the empty cubicle diagonally across from mine. Fine.
I offered a polite wave, got a thousand-watt smile in return, and went back to my Gantt chart.
Then, the first encounter. She needed help with the shared drive. That was normal.
She walked over. She stood so close I could smell the cinnamon gum she was chewing and see the faint dusting of powder on her cheek. Not normal.
My chair has wheels. I subtly rolled back, maybe six inches.
“‘The X drive, you said?'”
She leaned in, following my retreat, her hand gesturing towards my monitor, her arm brushing mine. “Yes, this darn thing! My last place, we had a much simpler system, you know?”
Her voice was conspiratorial, as if we were sharing state secrets instead of discussing network-attached storage.
I could feel my neck prickle. This was going to be a long week.
The Human Homing Beacon
It wasn’t a one-off. Brenda, it turned out, was a human homing beacon. And everyone’s personal space was her North Star.
The next few days were a masterclass in unintentional intimacy.
She’d corner Mark from IT by the coffee machine, her face inches from his as she detailed her cat’s dietary needs. Mark, bless his patient soul, would just kind of… wilt.
I saw Susan from Marketing practically levitate backwards when Brenda approached her desk to ask about a font.
Her stories were endless, mundane, and delivered with the urgency of a breaking news bulletin. Her niece’s ballet recital. The traffic on I-95.
A detailed comparison of fabric softeners. And always, always, from a proximity that would make a dentist uncomfortable.
I tried the usual office maneuvers. The “urgent phone call” pick-up when she neared. The “deeply engrossed in my screen” posture.
I even started taking the long route to the restroom, a scenic tour past the quiet, distant hum of the servers, just to avoid her orbit.
“‘She’s… a lot,’ my deskmate, Carlos, whispered to me one afternoon, after Brenda had spent ten minutes explaining the intricacies of her sourdough starter to him, practically perched on his visitor chair. He had that shell-shocked look, the one we were all starting to wear.”
“‘A lot is an understatement, Carlos,’ I muttered back, my jaw tight. ‘She’s a personal space violation waiting to happen. Repeatedly.'”
It wasn’t just the closeness. It was the lack of awareness.
The sheer, unadulterated obliviousness. How could someone navigate the world for, I guessed, forty-something years and not pick up on the universal cues for “too close”?
Ambushed by the Aloe Vera
The big project, the Atherton account, was consuming my life. Late nights, early mornings, a constant stream of emails and conference calls.
My stress levels were already dialed up to eleven. The last thing I needed was an uninvited lecture on plant care.
I was at the communal file cabinets, searching for an old contract, back to the main office floor. The metal drawer screeched open.
“‘Oh, Sarah, there you are!’ Brenda’s voice, too loud, too close behind me.”
I stiffened. Maybe if I didn’t turn around…
No such luck. She materialized beside me, effectively pinning me between her and the cold, grey metal.
“‘I was just saying to myself, that aloe vera plant on your desk looks a little sad. Are you misting it?'”
Her face was a foot from mine. I could see the tiny lines around her eyes, smell the faint, sweet scent of her hand lotion – lavender, I thought, with a weird, cloying undertone.
My own breath caught in my chest. “‘It’s… fine, Brenda.'”
“‘Oh, but it could be thriving! My aunt Carol, she has the most amazing aloe, and her secret is…'”
The story went on. And on. About Aunt Carol.
About aloe vera propagation. About the benefits of filtered water versus tap.
I tried to lean away, subtly. My shoulder blade hit the sharp edge of the cabinet.
She didn’t notice. She just leaned with me, adjusting her stance like a tango partner determined to maintain contact.
My politeness was fraying. My patience, already worn thin by the Atherton account, was about to snap.
I felt trapped, not just physically, but by the social contract that says you don’t just shove someone away. But oh, how I wanted to.
“‘Brenda,’ I said, my voice strained. ‘I really need to find this file.'”
“‘Right, right! But just quickly, about the sunlight…'”
The “Personable” Defense
That was it. The elastic band of my composure snapped.
“‘Brenda,’ I said, a little louder this time, turning to face her fully, which unfortunately brought our faces even closer for a horrifying second. I took a deliberate step back, creating a precious eighteen inches of air.”
“‘Could you please give me a little space?’ My voice was trembling slightly, a mix of adrenaline and sheer exasperation.”
The monologue about Aunt Carol’s prize-winning aloe stopped mid-sentence. Brenda blinked.
Her bright, eager expression faltered, replaced by a look of… was that offense?
“‘Oh,’ she said, her voice dropping. She took a tiny, almost imperceptible step back herself, but her eyes narrowed slightly.”
“‘Well. I’m sorry. I’m just a personable person.'”
The words hung in the air between us. Personable. Like it was a shield.
Like it excused everything. Like my discomfort was my problem, not her behavior.
“‘I understand,’ I said, trying to keep my tone even, though my heart was hammering. ‘But I really need a bit more personal space to focus. Especially when I’m up against a deadline.'”
She gave a tight little nod, her lips pressed together. “‘Right. Well.'”
“‘Some people appreciate when you make an effort.’ And with that, she turned and walked away, her floral print receding down the aisle.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My hands were clammy.
I felt a weird mix of relief and… guilt? Had I been too harsh? No.
I’d asked politely. Hadn’t I?
But the way she’d said “personable,” like it was my failing for not appreciating her brand of invasive friendliness… it made my skin crawl.
Carlos walked by a minute later, raising an eyebrow. “‘Everything okay?'”
“‘Just had a conversation about horticulture,’ I said, my voice flat. ‘And boundaries.'”
He nodded slowly. “‘Ah. The Brenda Special.'”
The rest of the day, Brenda was noticeably cooler. She didn’t approach my desk.
She didn’t even make eye contact. And a tiny, petty part of me felt a flicker of triumph.
But a larger part felt uneasy. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I could feel it in the air, as thick and uncomfortable as her lavender hand lotion.
The Garlic Gambit: Echoes in the Cubicle Farm
The following morning, the office felt different. Or maybe I felt different.
Brenda was at her desk, tapping away, a picture of studious concentration. No morning greetings boomed across the cubicles.
No impromptu stories ambushed unsuspecting colleagues by the printer. It was… quiet. Too quiet.
A few coworkers shot me curious glances. Had word gotten out? Probably.
Office telegraphs are faster than fiber optics. I tried to focus on the Atherton presentation, due end of week, but Brenda’s silent, reproachful presence was a constant distraction.
Every time I looked up, she seemed to be pointedly not looking at me.
“‘So, the ice queen treatment, huh?’ Carlos murmured as he passed my desk, grabbing a file.”
“‘Apparently,’ I sighed. ‘I asked for space, not a new Cold War.'”
The thing is, her silence was almost as unnerving as her proximity. Before, she was a known quantity, albeit an irritating one.
Now, she was an unknown. Was she plotting? Was she genuinely hurt?
Was she going to complain to HR that I was “unpersonable”?
My anxiety, already a low hum from the Atherton stress, ticked up a notch. Tom had listened patiently last night, bless him.
“‘She sounds like a nightmare, hon,’ he’d said. ‘But you did what you had to do.'” Lily had just asked if Brenda smelled bad. Teenagers.
The day crawled by. Every time Brenda got up, my internal radar pinged.
Was she coming over? No, just the coffee machine. Just the restroom.
Just… existing in a way that made my shoulders bunch up around my ears. This was not sustainable.
I needed to work, not play psychological chess with the new account manager.
The Accidental Sabotage
Wednesday. Atherton pre-presentation call with Mr. Davies, our department head, and the client’s VP. High stakes.
I had my headset on, my notes spread out, my game face firmly in place. This was my turf.
We were ten minutes in, discussing Q4 rollout strategies, when I sensed movement. A floral blur in my peripheral vision. Brenda.
She was standing at the edge of my cubicle, holding a Tupperware container.
“‘Sarah?’ she whispered, loud enough for my sensitive microphone to pick up. ‘I brought in some of that seven-layer dip I was telling you about yesterday? Before… well, you know.'” Her voice was saccharine sweet.
My blood ran cold. The client VP, a notoriously prickly woman named Ms. Albright, paused mid-sentence.
“‘Is someone there with you, Sarah?’ she asked, her voice like cracking ice.”
“‘No! No, just a… a colleague with a quick question, Ms. Albright. Apologies,’ I stammered, frantically waving Brenda away with one hand while trying to maintain a professional smile for the tiny webcam image.”
Brenda, however, seemed to take my wave as an invitation. She leaned further in, thrusting the Tupperware towards my face.
“‘It’s got extra jalapeños, just how you said you liked spicy things that one time!'”
“‘Brenda, not now!’ I hissed, my voice dangerously low.”
“‘Oh, is this a bad time?’ she asked, her voice a stage whisper easily captured by the mic. ‘I can come back!'”
On the screen, Mr. Davies’ face was a frozen mask of controlled fury. Ms. Albright’s eyebrow had arched so high it was practically in her hairline.
“‘Perhaps we should reschedule this, Sarah,’ Ms. Albright said, her tone glacial. ‘When you have fewer… culinary distractions.'”
The call ended abruptly. Humiliation washed over me, hot and sickening.
I ripped off my headset. “‘Brenda! What on earth were you thinking?'”
She blinked, genuinely confused. “‘I just wanted to share my dip. You said you liked dip.'”
Her lower lip trembled. “‘I was trying to be nice. After… you know.'”
Mr. Davies was at my cubicle in seconds, his face thunderous. “‘My office. Now.'”
The seven-layer dip sat on my desk, a monument to my professional mortification.
The HR Dead End
Mr. Davies was, to put it mildly, incandescent. “‘That call was critical, Sarah! What was that circus?'”
I tried to explain. About Brenda. About the close-talking.
About my polite request for space. About the subsequent awkwardness.
It all sounded so petty, so trivial, when laid out in the stark light of his disapproval.
“‘She’s new, Sarah,’ he said, his voice tight with controlled anger. ‘She’s trying to fit in. Maybe a little overeager.'”
“‘You’re a senior manager. I expect you to handle these minor interpersonal issues with more… finesse. Not create an international incident over a bowl of dip.'”
Finesse. Right. Because fending off a human barnacle while trying to land a six-figure account was all about finesse.
“‘With all due respect, Mr. Davies,’ I said, my voice shaking slightly, ‘this isn’t just ‘overeager.’ Her behavior is consistently disruptive.'”
“‘I tried to address it politely.'”
He waved a dismissive hand. “‘Talk to HR if you feel you must. But frankly, Sarah, this reflects poorly on your ability to manage your workspace and team dynamics.'”
My stomach churned. So, it was my fault. Of course.
I did go to HR. I spoke to Janice, a woman who usually radiated calm competence but today seemed harried and distracted.
I explained the situation, trying to be objective, trying not to sound like I was whining. The close-talking.
The lack of awareness. The dip incident.
Janice listened, nodding, making occasional notes. “‘So, Brenda is… overly friendly,’ she summarized, when I finally ran out of steam.”
“‘She’s invasive,’ I corrected. ‘It’s impacting my ability to work, and frankly, it’s creating a hostile environment for others too.'”
Janice sighed. “‘Look, Sarah. Brenda doesn’t have any official complaints against her.'”
“‘You’re the first to bring this up formally. We can have an informal chat with her about professional boundaries, but unless there’s a pattern of harassment or something more egregious…'” She trailed off, giving me a look that said, This is small potatoes.
“‘So, I just have to tolerate someone breathing down my neck and sabotaging client calls?'”
“‘We encourage employees to resolve interpersonal conflicts directly and maturely,’ Janice said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Perhaps you could try talking to her again? Reinforce your needs?'”
I walked out of HR feeling utterly deflated. And angry. So angry.
No one was listening. No one understood. It was my problem to solve.
Fine. If they wanted me to resolve it, I would. But it wouldn’t be with polite requests anymore.
The gloves were coming off.
An Epiphany in Aisle Seven
That evening, I was a wreck. Tom tried his best, making soothing noises and offering to “have a word” with Brenda himself, which was sweet but wildly impractical.
Lily, surprisingly, offered a solution. “‘Mom, just tell her she stinks.'”
“‘Lily! That’s horrible!'”
“‘Yeah, but would it work?’ she mused, scrolling through her phone.”
It got me thinking, though. Not about telling Brenda she stank, but about… olfactory warfare.
If social cues and direct requests didn’t work, maybe something more primal would.
The Atherton presentation was Friday. I had one more day. One more day of Brenda’s potential for random acts of proximity.
The next morning, before work, I found myself in the grocery store, staring at the produce section. An idea, half-formed and slightly unhinged, was taking root.
It was inspired by an old college roommate who used to eat raw garlic to ward off unwanted advances at parties. Crude, yes. But effective?
I picked up a large bulb of garlic. Then, a fist-sized yellow onion. My mind raced.
A sandwich. Not just any sandwich. A weaponized sandwich.
Something so potent, so undeniably fragrant, that it would create its own personal exclusion zone.
It felt insane. Childish, even. This was a Fortune 500 company, not a middle school cafeteria.
But HR had been useless. Davies clearly thought I was the problem. What did I have to lose?
My sanity was already halfway out the door.
A small, almost manic smile touched my lips. “‘Okay, Brenda,’ I muttered to the onions. ‘You want to be personable? Let’s see how personable you are with this.'”
The cashier gave me a funny look as I paid for my aromatic arsenal. I probably looked a little wild-eyed.
But for the first time in days, I felt a spark of hope. Or maybe it was just the fumes from the raw onion I’d accidentally nicked with my thumbnail.
The Scent of Battle: A Culinary WMD
The aroma hit me the moment I opened the fridge Thursday morning. Garlic and onion, sharp and aggressive, had permeated the triple-layered plastic wrap and the container itself.
My kitchen smelled like a Transylvanian deli.
“‘Mom, what IS that?’ Lily asked, wrinkling her nose as she came down for breakfast, her voice a blend of disgust and adolescent drama.”
“‘Strategic breakfast initiative,’ I replied, trying for nonchalant as I carefully unwrapped my creation. Two slices of sourdough, a thick layer of hummus – for adhesion – and then the payload: finely chopped raw garlic, slivers of red onion, and for good measure, a sprinkle of asafoetida powder I’d found in the back of the spice cabinet.”
It was a relic from an Indian cooking phase Tom and I had gone through. It smelled… unholy.
Tom poked his head in. “‘Honey, are you planning on warding off vampires or just everyone at the office?’ He coughed pointedly.”
“‘Just one specific vampire,’ I said, a grim sort of determination settling in. I packed the sandwich into a new, even more secure container, then into a Ziploc bag, and then another.”
It felt like I was handling a biological agent.
Driving to work, I kept the windows down, despite the early chill. The lingering scent in my car was already making my eyes water.
This was either going to be a stroke of genius or the single most embarrassing miscalculation of my professional life. There was probably no in-between.
I stashed the container in the bottom drawer of my desk, under a pile of old project binders. Every so often, a faint, tell-tale whiff would escape, a reminder of the nuclear option lurking beneath my TPS reports.
The Olfactory Offensive
Mid-morning. Prime Brenda time. She usually made her rounds after the initial email flurry died down, fueled by her second cup of coffee and an inexhaustible supply of anecdotes.
I kept an eye on her cubicle, my senses on high alert. The Atherton presentation was tomorrow; I couldn’t afford another dip-related disaster.
There she was. Rising from her chair, a sheaf of papers in hand. Heading… my way.
My heart began to thump a nervous rhythm against my ribs. Showtime.
With as much casualness as I could muster, I opened my desk drawer. The scent, even contained, was potent.
I pulled out the Tupperware, clicked open the lid. The full, unadulterated force of garlic, onion, and that weirdly sulfurous asafoetida hit me.
It was breathtaking. Literally.
Brenda arrived at the edge of my cubicle just as I was taking the first, massive bite. The crunch of the sourdough, the pungent explosion in my mouth.
I chewed with deliberate enthusiasm, making eye contact.
“‘Oh, Sarah, I just had a quick question about the Henderson account…’ she began, her usual bright tone.”
Then her nostrils flared. Her eyes widened slightly. She paused, mid-sentence.
A flicker of… something crossed her face. Confusion? Disgust?
I smiled, a big, garlicky, oniony smile. “‘Mmmph hup?’ I mumbled around my mouthful, aiming a blast of fragrant breath in her general direction.”
“‘Whash up, Bremla?’ I swallowed. ‘What can I do for you?'”
She took an involuntary step back. One tiny, beautiful step. Her smile wavered.
“‘Oh. Uh. Nothing. It’s… it’s not important.'” Her gaze darted from the sandwich to my face, then back to the sandwich.
Another step back. She was now a good three feet away. A record.
“‘Are you sure?’ I asked, taking another bite, savoring the acrid burn. ‘It smells amazing, doesn’t it?'”
I might have been hallucinating, but I thought I saw her eyes water.
“‘No, really,’ she stammered, her voice a little strained. ‘I just… remembered I have to make a call. Excuse me.'”
She practically fled, a blur of floral print disappearing around the corner.
I watched her go, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across my face. It worked. Oh my god, it actually worked.
The sheer, unadulterated audacity of it. I felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in my chest.
I quickly took another bite to stifle it. Victory had never smelled so… pungent.
The Aftermath and the Whispers
The rest of the morning passed in a blissful, Brenda-free haze. She didn’t come near my cubicle.
In fact, she seemed to be giving my entire quadrant of the office a wide berth. When she had to walk past my aisle to get to the printer, she did so at a noticeably accelerated pace, her head turned pointedly away.
Carlos ambled over around lunchtime, sniffing the air dramatically as he approached. “‘Whoa. Did someone declare war on their sinuses in here?'”
He peered at the remnants of my sandwich, now safely re-contained. “‘Was that… tactical?'”
I just smiled. “‘Let’s just say I was exploring new avenues of interpersonal communication.'”
He grinned. “‘I think you just invented a new Olympic sport. Extreme social distancing.'”
The news, or rather, the scent, spread. I noticed a few colleagues giving my desk a wider berth than usual, though their expressions were more amused than offended.
Janice from HR walked past, paused, sniffed delicately, and hurried on without comment, which I took as a win.
The real fallout came later that afternoon. Susan from Marketing sidled up to my desk, her expression a mixture of awe and concern.
“‘Sarah,’ she whispered, ‘Brenda is in the breakroom. Crying.'”
My stomach dropped. Crying? That wasn’t part of the plan.
Repulsion, yes. Retreat, definitely. But actual tears?
“‘What? Why?'”
“‘She’s telling everyone you ‘chemically assaulted’ her,’ Susan said, her eyes wide. ‘She said you ate that… that thing on purpose to be cruel and exclusionary.'”
“‘That you’re a bully.'”
Bully? Me? The accusation stung, sharp and unexpected.
I had been pushed, cornered, my work sabotaged. I had defended myself, albeit unconventionally.
But a bully?
“‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said, a little too loudly. ‘She’s the one who’s been…'” I trailed off.
How could I explain the relentless, suffocating proximity, the utter lack of boundaries, in a way that didn’t make me sound like a hypersensitive crank?
“‘Well, that’s her story,’ Susan said, patting my arm sympathetically. ‘And she’s telling it to anyone who will listen.'”
“‘Davies just went in there.'”
Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed on the eve of the Atherton presentation. My brilliant, stinky plan was starting to have some seriously unpleasant side effects.
The Summons
The Atherton presentation the next day was, thankfully, a success. Brenda was conspicuously absent from the office – “called in sick,” according to the grapevine, which buzzed with speculation about the “Garlic Incident.”
I managed to navigate the client questions and secure a tentative go-ahead for the next phase. A small victory, but it was overshadowed by a knot of anxiety in my gut.
What had Brenda told Davies? What was HR going to do now that there was an official-sounding “chemical assault” allegation, however absurd?
I tried to focus, to catch up on the emails I’d ignored while prepping for Atherton. But every time my inbox pinged, I flinched.
Late afternoon, it arrived. An email from Janice in HR. Subject: “Urgent: Meeting Request – Workplace Conduct.”
My blood turned to ice. Workplace Conduct. That sounded ominous. Formal.
Not at all like the casual dismissal she’d given me when I’d complained about Brenda.
The body of the email was brief. “Sarah, please come to my office at 4:30 PM today to discuss a formal complaint that has been lodged. Mr. Davies will also be in attendance.”
A formal complaint. Lodged by Brenda, no doubt. She hadn’t just cried; she’d weaponized her tears.
My unconventional solution had backfired, spectacularly. The garlic may have won the battle for personal space, but it looked like I was about to lose the war.
I stared at the screen, the triumphant scent of yesterday’s sandwich now a bitter memory. My head throbbed.
This wasn’t just about personal space anymore. This was about my job. My reputation.
And suddenly, the whole situation felt a lot less like a quirky office anecdote and a lot more like a career-defining crisis.
The Price of Perfume: Facing the Inquisition
The HR office felt colder than usual. Or maybe it was just me.
Janice sat behind her large, uncluttered desk, her expression carefully neutral. Mr. Davies was next to her, arms crossed, face like a granite cliff.
Not a good sign.
“‘Sarah, thank you for coming,’ Janice began, her tone all business. ‘As you know, Brenda Milner has lodged a formal complaint regarding an incident yesterday.'”
She slid a piece of paper across the desk. “‘This is her statement.'”
I picked it up. My hands were clammy. Brenda’s handwriting was loopy and girlish, a stark contrast to the accusatory words.
“Deliberate olfactory harassment.” “Intentional creation of a hostile and nauseating environment.” “Caused me significant emotional distress and physical discomfort, including watering eyes and a gag reflex.”
A gag reflex? Seriously? I remembered her slight recoil, but this was high drama.
“‘Well?’ Mr. Davies said, his voice tight. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Sarah?'”
I took a deep breath. “‘What I have to say is that Brenda’s statement is a gross exaggeration and a complete misrepresentation of the situation. For weeks, I have been subjected to her consistently invasive behavior.'”
I detailed the close-talking, the physical crowding, the way she ignored direct, polite requests for space. I even recounted the disastrous client call.
“‘The sandwich,’ I admitted, ‘was an unconventional attempt to create some personal space after all other methods, including a direct appeal to HR, had failed.'”
Janice raised an eyebrow at that. “‘You characterized my advice as a failure?'”
“‘I characterized the outcome as a failure,’ I clarified, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. ‘I was told to resolve it myself. I tried.'”
“‘By bringing in a sandwich that, by all accounts, could stun a moose at twenty paces?’ Davies scoffed. ‘This isn’t high school, Sarah.'”
“‘This is a professional environment.'”
“‘And in a professional environment, I expect my personal boundaries to be respected,’ I countered, my voice rising slightly. ‘Brenda’s behavior has been anything but professional.'”
“‘She corners people. She doesn’t listen. She makes it impossible to concentrate.'”
The air crackled. This wasn’t just about a smelly sandwich. It was about respect, about awareness, about whose comfort mattered more.
The Unmasking, of Sorts
Janice steepled her fingers. “‘Sarah, while your methods were… unorthodox… we did do some due diligence after Ms. Milner’s complaint.'”
“‘And after your previous, informal discussion with me.'”
My heart gave a little thump. Due diligence?
“‘It appears,’ Janice continued, choosing her words carefully, ‘that Ms. Milner may have a… history.'” She exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance with Davies.
“‘Let’s just say this isn’t the first time she’s been involved in interpersonal conflicts that escalate in a similar fashion. There are patterns of her perceiving herself as a victim after colleagues have raised concerns about her behavior.'”
I stared at her. “‘A history? What kind of history?'”
Davies sighed, uncrossing his arms. “‘Look, Sarah. Confidentiality, and all that.'”
“‘But let’s just say Ms. Milner’s references weren’t as thoroughly checked as they should have been. There were… ambiguities.'”
“‘She has a tendency to, shall we say, reframe situations to her advantage.'”
A cold fury began to simmer beneath my anxiety. So, Brenda wasn’t just an oblivious space invader. She was a manipulative one.
The tears in the breakroom, the “chemical assault” – it was all a performance, designed to make me the villain. The rage I’d felt before was a flicker compared to this.
She had played me. She had played them all.
“‘So, she’s done this before?’ I pressed. ‘Complained about ‘harassment’ when people called her out?'”
Janice nodded slowly. “‘There are indicators. Let’s leave it at that.'”
“‘Which, frankly, complicates this current situation considerably.'”
It complicated things? It clarified everything! Brenda wasn’t just “personable”; she was a professional problem-causer, adept at turning the tables.
And I, with my garlic-and-onion defense, had walked right into her narrative trap. Or had I inadvertently exposed it?
The Office Divided
The meeting ended without a clear resolution, but with a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Davies still looked annoyed with me, but there was a new uncertainty in his eyes.
Janice promised a “thorough review.”
Word, of course, got out. Not the specifics of Brenda’s “history” – HR was too tight-lipped for that – but the general gist that Brenda’s complaint wasn’t being taken at face value.
And that I hadn’t been immediately fired for deploying a culinary WMD.
The office became a strangely polarized place. There was Team Sarah, a small but loyal contingent led by Carlos and Susan, who muttered darkly about “gaslighting” and “people who play the victim.”
They gave me supportive nods and left encouraging sticky notes on my monitor (“Stay Strong! Smell Ya Later!”).
Then there was Team Brenda. These were mostly people who hadn’t had direct, prolonged exposure to her close-talking, or who perhaps bought into her tearful performance.
They shot me disapproving glares. I overheard snippets of conversation by the coffee machine: “…so unprofessional…” “…bullying, plain and simple…”
“…poor Brenda, she’s so sensitive.”
It was exhausting. Every interaction felt freighted with unspoken judgment. Work, already stressful, now had this added layer of social warfare.
I found myself eating lunch at my desk more often, just to avoid the charged atmosphere of the breakroom.
Brenda, meanwhile, returned to work after her “sick day,” looking pale and wan, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She played the wounded sparrow to perfection.
She avoided me like the plague, which was a relief, but her very presence was a constant reminder of the mess.
The ethical dilemma gnawed at me. Had I done the right thing? My methods were extreme, no doubt.
But what were my other options? Suffer in silence? Let my work be continually disrupted?
Trust an HR department that initially dismissed my concerns? Brenda’s manipulation was infuriating, but did it entirely excuse my actions?
Two wrongs don’t make a right, my mother used to say. But sometimes, it felt like one wrong simply provoked another, more creative wrong.
The Lingering Aftertaste
A week later, the email landed in everyone’s inbox. “Brenda Milner will be leaving the company to pursue other opportunities. We wish her well in her future endeavors.”
Corporate speak for “you’re fired, but we’re letting you resign to avoid a scene.”
A wave of complex emotions washed over me. Relief, definitely. Vindication, a little.
But also a strange, lingering discomfort. The office air slowly cleared. The tension eased.
People stopped taking sides so overtly.
Mr. Davies called me into his office. “‘Sarah,’ he said, his tone more conciliatory. ‘This whole situation was… regrettable.'”
“‘Clearly, there were some systemic failures in our hiring process.'” He cleared his throat.
“‘And while I still don’t condone your… approach… I understand the frustration that led to it. Let’s just put this behind us, shall we?'” He even offered a small, awkward smile.
Easy for him to say. He hadn’t been the one living in a state of constant olfactory vigilance.
Life at the office gradually returned to a new normal. A more cautious normal. People seemed more aware of personal space, perhaps.
Or maybe they were just scared I’d resort to weaponized lunches again. I even found a small, decorative onion paperweight on my desk one morning – a gag gift from Carlos, no doubt.
I kept it.
But the victory, if you could call it that, felt hollow. I had “won.” Brenda was gone.
My personal space was secure. But the rage her actions had incited, the deep ethical questions her manipulation and my reaction had raised – those didn’t just disappear.
I’d stood up for myself, yes. But the garlic gambit, the “olfactory assault”… it had left an aftertaste.
A bitter reminder that sometimes, fighting fire with fire just leaves everyone smelling of smoke. And onions.
Would I do it again? I looked at the little onion paperweight. I honestly didn’t know.
And that, more than anything, was what lingered. The uncomfortable truth that sometimes, there are no easy answers, no clean victories, just messy compromises and the lingering scent of battles fought in the cubicle farm
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