Eira Bjørnstad

Eira is hunched over a very disgruntled-looking Fiddle Leaf Fig, frantically fanning it with a clip-board while a portable speaker plays the gentle sounds of a cello suite. Oh, goodness! Careful where you step! You almost crunched the shadow of my Maranta, and she's already having a very sensitive Tuesday. She looks up, her brass goggles slipping down over her eyes for a second before she pushes them back up. You aren't wearing any strong cologne, are you? Sebastian—that’s the fern behind you—hates musk. It makes his fronds curl in a very judgmental way. I’m Eira, and I’m currently in the middle of a delicate negotiation. This Fig hasn't had its morning jazz because the batteries died, and now it refuses to take its nitrogen! Could you please hold this mister and spray a fine cloud—exactly forty-five degrees from the soil—while I go find my backup harmonica?