This Coworking Space Runs on Sisterhood and Toxic Conformity

The Parlor

Every cell of the building’s interior oozes with pink. Shades of bubblegum. Rouge. Peach so ripe, you can feel its sun-beamed juice roll sloppily down your cheek. Millennial reminiscent of every Y2K-style skirt in your hometown H&M that you couldn’t afford to buy in high school.

You enter the lobby. Scents of jasmine, honeysuckle, and white generational wealth gust towards you in a perfumed bubble. Your Doc Martens make a muted thump as you traipse across the marble floors. You know they’re itching for the clacks of pumps and heeled booties and are sighing disappointedly at your rubber soles.

“May I help you?” A young woman greets you with a confused smile. Her badge reads “Ashleigh.”

“I would like to learn about your coworking membership.”

She looks even more confused.

“Here’s our pamphlet.” A crisp booklet skids across the counter. She retracts her fingers with such speed, you almost miss them completely.

The sharp folds of the pamphlet prick your skin. Your first thought is teeth. Teeth are everywhere. On smiling women reading. Smiling women lecturing. Smiling women cheersing, their manicured nails clutching champagne flutes. The background fades away, and you are left with teeth glowing in the dark.

“Excuse me? The rates aren’t listed.”

The woman no longer looks confused. “The prices are listed on the back.” So they are. In letters almost too small to see. Prices so obscene that your eyes can’t help but bulge. You remind yourself that the few friends you’ve made have all moved away, and you don’t really know anyone in this city.

“I’d like to become a member.”

The woman’s face shifts into a toothless smile. “You can’t just become a member. You need to do an intake. And then we review your application.”

“Fine,” you say, your jaw set.

She sighs and turns her back to you, walking behind the flamingo pink curtains. Your fingers drum intricate patterns on the counter. 

Finally, she returns with a stack of papers, unwieldy and as high as her shoulders. “Just a bit of paperwork.” She drops it onto the counter with a loud thud and places a pastel pink pen on top with, “The Parlor” displayed in white cursive. She gestures to a seating area in the center of the room.

You make your way back across the marble. You place the papers on the pearly white coffee table and settle into a chair patterned with bows and sailboats. You are displeased to discover that it’s comfortable. Really comfortable.

The pages are as thin as tissue-paper, so you lick your fingers to pluck the one on top. It’s a questionnaire.

First Name

Last Name

Pronouns

Email Address

Phone Number

Emergency Contact

What is your profession?

Your pen scratches gently across the paper until it settles on the next question.

What is your net worth?

Your pen freezes. You look up from the paper. The woman is gone. You look back down.

What is your deepest insecurity?

What is your clothing size?

What is your body mass index?

How old are you? Explain.

How long have you been a member of Equinox?

What did you do the evening of the 2016 election?

“Excuse me?” You rise out of your chair, striding across the floor to the empty counter. You ring the bell on the desk.

A different woman, who looks eerily like the first one, appears. Her badge reads “Baileigh.” 

“May I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, I was filling out this intake form and noticed these questions.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been asked about my net worth, BMI, and political affiliation in an intake form before.”

“They’re our standard questions. I suppose if you want to leave a few answers blank, that’s fine, but it will impact your final score.”

“Score?”

“Yes, your compatibility score.” She also looks visibly annoyed. “We screen and only admit the finest women. Perhaps you would be more comfortable with the WeWork across the street?”

You grumble something about WeWork’s cold brew and find your seat again. The next pages have multiple choice questions.

You work in an office. A coworker brings her son’s leftover birthday cake and leaves it in the kitchen. She messages the staff that it is available. Do you . . . 

1. Bolt into the kitchen. You are disgusting and have no self-control.
2. Say no. It doesn’t fit into your calorie tracker app.
3. Sneak in there at 3pm, and while “cleaning the coffee maker,” you stuff a piece into your big, dumb mouth.
4. Transfer to the Wichita office at the first chance you get.

Your mouth hangs open.

You and your Parlor sisters are having a friendly game night competition. What weapon do you use?

1. Words and insults, duh. They’re always the sharpest knives.
2. Broken shards of your sisters’ sauv blanc bottles. It’s their fault they brought the wine.
3. You yell, “That cheese is regular fat, Tina!” over and over until Tina crumples into a ball on the floor.
4. You transfer to the Wichita office.

You’re back at the counter. You ring the bell once, and then a second and third and fourth time. “Hello? Hello?!”

A third woman finally appears, eerily similar to the first two women. Her badge reads “Kaileigh.”

“I can’t fill out this form. I’m sorry, but this place just isn’t for me.” You start to retreat, your feet resolute in their decision.

“Are you sure? You’ve reached the final part of your intake.”

“I have?”

“Yes, the mental and physical exam.”

You hesitate. You just can’t stomach one more glass of sticky wine at a speed dating event, another debt-inducing pottery class, or god help you, a pickleball match. “What does the exam entail?” 

“The first challenge is called Human Rolodex. Please list everyone you have ever met in your life in chronological order.”

Your mouth dries. Your mind goes blank.

“Um, I believe I have a mother—”

“Name?” Kaileigh looks up expectantly, her hand poised with a pen over what looks like an oversized guest book.

“Elizabeth.” She writes.

“Title?”

“Associate Professor of English.” She crosses out the name. 

“Next.”

You rattle off every single person you can think of from your small town. Your father, your sister, your childhood best friend who moved away in the third grade, your rabbi (can you tell them you had a rabbi?), your first crush, your favorite history teacher, your math teacher who gave you a complex about your math abilities throughout high school. With every name, Kaileigh’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly, but then fall as she crosses the name off the list.

You’re trying to recollect all your previous specialists and dental hygienists when Kaileigh’s pen halts.

“Dr. Porter is a high-level donor for women in STEM.”

Your breath quickens. “Huh, I didn’t know.”

“We’ve been trying to get her to speak at our center for quite some time. Shall you invite her for a space tour?”

“I think I have an appointment with her on the 28th—”

“Perfect.” She places a smooth hand on top of yours and gives it a squeeze. Your throat warms. “Please ask her if she has any dietary restrictions for egg salad sandwiches.” She removes her hand. “Now, we move onto part two.”

Kaileigh exits behind the curtains. She returns with a plate piled high with miniature frosted cakes and French pastries, and a glass of champagne between her chrome nails. She places them in your hands.

“For this next challenge, we will be sourcing volunteers from some of our most valued members. For the Buffet Social, please speak with each sister for exactly four minutes, and tell them about yourself. You may not offer support, connection, or mentorship to any of them. Similarly, you are prohibited to accept any help, no matter how sincere they may sound. Do you understand?”

Your mouth moves before you realize. “Yes.”

“Come on out, girls!”

The ballet slipper pink wall next to the reception desk rolls open to reveal smiling women standing with their hands pressed together. Their mouths are open wide, their teeth starch-white. Their eyes are the only part of their faces not smiling. They stare at you expectantly, their jet-black pupils taking you in as your Doc Martens inch closer and closer.