Strategic Rudeness
967 Words
Alicia decided to be unpleasant.
Not openly. Not dramatically. She did not believe in scenes. But she had learned, painfully, precisely, that warmth was an invitation, and curiosity was a door. If Nate was determined to stand at the threshold, she would make the room uncomfortable enough that he stopped trying to enter.
It was not cruelty.
It was containment.
She deployed it carefully, the way she did everything else.
On Orion, she remained immaculate. Calm. Professional. Impeccably fair. She ran meetings with her usual clarity, acknowledged Nate’s contributions without embellishment, redirected questions before they became conversations.
On Helix, she sharpened the edges.
When Nate asked for her input in passing, she answered in single sentences.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“That’s already covered.”
When he suggested a joint review, she cc’d three other people and proposed a group session instead.
When he lingered, she packed up.
When he smiled, she did not.
The effect was immediate.
The atmosphere shifted, not hostile, exactly, but cool enough to discourage lingering. Conversations shortened. Opportunities for proximity evaporated. Alicia felt the familiar sense of relief that came with narrowing margins.
This was working.
At least, it should have been.
“You’re efficient,” Nate said one afternoon, stopping by her desk just as she was closing her laptop.
She did not look up. “That’s the job.”
“It’s also a choice,” he replied.
She stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, and met his gaze with polite indifference. “Is there something you need?”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re pushing.”
“I’m busy,” she said.
“Busy doesn’t usually look like dismissal.”
Alicia’s smile was thin. Controlled. “You’re reading too much into tone.”
“Am I?” he asked.
She stepped around him. “Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Alicia.”
She walked away without slowing.
At home, she reset the space with a touch more force than necessary. Keys down. Bag away. Shoes aligned. The routine absorbed the residual tension, as it always did.
Strategic rudeness had worked before.
When clients grew curious.
When colleagues mistook competence for availability.
When men mistook proximity for permission.
It created distance without confrontation. It preserved structure. It kept her safe.
The next day, she refined it.
She answered emails with impeccable brevity. She acknowledged Nate’s messages last, never first. She praised outcomes, never insight. She kept her gaze on screens, her body angled away, her tone cool enough to discourage warmth.
Natalie noticed immediately.
“You’re being icy,” she said over lunch, stirring her coffee with evident delight.
“I’m being professional,” Alicia replied.
Natalie smirked. “You’re being mean.”
Alicia raised an eyebrow. “I’m being efficient.”
“You’re being obvious.”
Alicia paused. “That’s not possible.”
Natalie leaned forward. “You don’t do anything halfway. When you pull back, it’s surgical. He’s going to notice.”
“He already has,” Alicia said flatly. “That’s the point.”
“And if he doesn’t retreat?”
Alicia took a measured sip of tea. “Everyone retreats eventually.”
Natalie studied her. “You’re not wrong. But you’re assuming he’s motivated by comfort.”
Alicia didn’t respond.
That afternoon, during a Helix working session, Nate asked a question that should have been simple.
“Can you walk me through the user decision tree here?” he said, gesturing at her screen.
“No,” Alicia replied.
The word landed harder than she’d intended.
Silence followed.
The facilitator blinked. “No?”
“I’ve already documented it,” Alicia said, voice level. “It’s in the shared drive.”
Nate held her gaze. “I’ve read it.”
“Then you have what you need.”
She turned back to her work.
The session continued, but the air had changed. Not hostile. Charged.
Later, she received a message.
Nate: Did I cross a line?
She stared at the screen.
This was the moment she usually softened. Explained. Repaired.
She did not.
Alicia: No.
The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Nate: Then I’m missing something.
She closed the chat.
The relief she’d expected did not arrive.
Instead, a thin thread of irritation wound through her chest, at him, at herself, at the fact that he hadn’t withdrawn as predicted. He hadn’t reacted with offense or ego. He hadn’t escalated.
He’d simply adjusted.
He stopped approaching her desk.
He routed questions elsewhere.
He mirrored her distance with professional precision.
And somehow, that unsettled her more than persistence would have.
On Orion, he continued to work seamlessly with her, supportive without deference, incisive without intrusion. He respected her authority without testing it.
On Helix, he gave her space.
Too much space.
The absence registered.
That evening, Alicia stood by the window longer than usual, watching the city settle into its predictable rhythms. Lights flickered on. Traffic thinned. Patterns reasserted themselves.
She should have felt victorious.
Instead, she felt… aware.
Strategic rudeness had always been her final line of defence. It worked because most people mistook distance for rejection, and rejection for judgement.
Nate had not.
He had accepted it as data. Unflappable.
Which meant the problem was not that he was relentless.
It was that he was respectful.
And respect, Alicia realised uneasily, was far harder to push away. And was something she valued.
She turned from the window and prepared for bed, movements precise, familiar.
Tomorrow, she told herself, the distance would hold.
It had to.
Because if rudeness failed, if even that did not restore the clean, uncomplicated boundaries she relied on, then she would have to confront a possibility she had spent years designing her life to avoid.
That the danger was no longer being seen.
It was being understood.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD