The Professional Proximity Mandate was being executed with frightening precision. Caleb and Eliza's workspace was divided by an imaginary, yet palpable, meridian. When Eliza needed to access the industrial mixer, she politely called out, "Requesting access to Zone Delta-4, five-minute window," and Caleb would move his chair back exactly eighteen inches, without making eye contact.
The silence was the hardest part. The air, purified of all emotional volatility, was now thick with unsaid arguments and suppressed longing.
Their collaborative project was the launch of The Starter of Sorrow: The Inconsolable Einkorn. Its narrative had to be powerful enough to make Julian Bellweather's Elon Elan look like a sugar cube.
"The product page requires a minimum of 400 words of deeply descriptive text," Caleb dictated, his gaze fixed on his laptop screen, where he was modeling the ROI of existential dread. "It must effectively communicate the difficulty of the process, justifying the $750 price point. Difficulty equals exclusivity."
"Difficulty is a given," Eliza mumbled, typing. "It's Einkorn; it practically refuses to proof under normal conditions anyway. But the narrative has to be more than hard; it has to be soul-crushing."
She began drafting the copy:
The Inconsolable Einkorn is not merely a starter; it is a profound commitment to difficulty. Cultivated from ancient, nearly extinct grains, it carries the weight of history and the burden of unfulfilled potential. It is the microbial equivalent of a Victorian poet who died tragically young.
Caleb leaned over to read the draft, forgetting the eighteen-inch rule for a dangerous half-second. His sharp, expensive cologne—the scent of clean efficiency—momentarily overwhelmed the yeasty air.
"The term 'Victorian poet' is acceptable, but the word 'potential' implies a positive outcome," Caleb corrected, his voice purely analytic. "We need to emphasize the lack of fulfillment. The client must feel they are buying a highly managed disaster."
"Right. High-maintenance melancholy," Eliza agreed, feeling the familiar, exciting synergy between their minds. Even when they were fighting, their business brain worked perfectly in tandem. "I'll change it to: It carries the existential despair of a thousand failed empires and refuses to rise until it senses genuine, verifiable angst."
"Verifiable angst," Caleb repeated, a flicker of something almost like admiration in his cold eyes. "Excellent. Now, the key feature: The Monthly Misery Report. I've drafted a template, but your qualitative input is mandatory."
He slid a printout across the table. It was titled: Inconsolable Einkorn: Monthly Emotional Data Submission.
The metrics were classic Caleb:
Metric 1: Subjective Despair Rating (Scale 1–10, 10 being optimal misery)
Metric 2: Total Hours Spent Contemplating Past Regrets (Must be logged to the minute)
Metric 3: Failure-to-Proof Ratio (Documented Evidence Required)
Eliza snorted. "This is too clinical! You can't quantify existential dread, Caleb. You have to feel it. The client needs to write a short essay—a tragedy, if you will."
She took a red pen (a deliberate, chaotic choice) and scrawled over his metrics.
Eliza's Revisions to the Misery Report:
REPLACE Metric 1 with:One-Paragraph, First-Person Account of a Deeply Felt Betrayal.
REPLACE Metric 2 with:A brief, original poem (at least four lines) on the Transience of Joy.
REPLACE Metric 3 with:Upload a photograph of a single tear, or the tear-stained Einkorn, as proof of emotional authenticity.
Caleb stared at her additions, his jaw tight. "A photograph of a tear? That is a logistical nightmare! The image verification protocol alone would cost thousands! And poetry? That is an unmanaged variable!"
"It's Proof of Purchase through pain, Caleb," Eliza argued, leaning forward, her frustration now less about the report and more about the wall he'd put up. "It makes them invested! It makes them look at their starter and see their own broken heart! Julian Bellweather can't sell that kind of profound, genuine vulnerability because he's never felt it."
She looked pointedly at him. "But we can. Because we know what it's like to have the one thing you rely on—the one thing that was supposed to be safe and true—suddenly feel like a lie."
The accusation hung heavy in the air. Caleb paled, instantly reading the qualitative subtext: You and I are the broken, Inconsolable Einkorns.
He looked away, his composure cracking around the edges. He hated that she was right, both about the marketing and the metaphor.
"Fine," Caleb said, his voice clipped. "We will implement the Poetry and Tear Protocol. But I will mandate a strict, 150-word limit on the essay, and the poem must adhere to a standardized rhyme scheme to facilitate data parsing."
He quickly returned to his terminal, drafting the final launch announcement with a speed that suggested he was trying to outrun his own feelings.
Vance & Copley proudly presents: The Inconsolable Einkorn. For the discerning collector who understands that true status is found not in effortless success, but in profound, highly managed despair. Maintenance Fee: $750/month. Only the truly dedicated need apply.
Eliza read the announcement. It was perfect: a flawless blend of her heartbreaking prose and his corporate arrogance. The Counter-Narrative was complete.
They had built a marketing masterpiece, but they hadn't exchanged a single genuine personal word. They had spent the entire day closer than they had been since the fight, communicating perfectly, yet remaining worlds apart.
As Caleb printed the final documents, Eliza noticed a new icon on his minimized desktop: a small, blurry image that looked suspiciously like a slightly lopsided, fuzzy blue square. He had apparently categorized the blue thread and given it a desktop folder, refusing to delete it, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it.
The fortress was built, but the fortress also had a secret, unoptimized window.
The 'Inconsolable Einkorn' is ready to launch, and Caleb's walls are showing cracks!