Page 14 of My Boss

Oh, here I need to stretch the fabric more. I notice a crease on the back of the chair and set about correcting it.

A few hours later, I’m awakened by a numbness in my hand. I open my eyes. I see canary yellow, illuminated by the rays of the rising sun, and I smile to myself.

Ouch! My cheek hurts, where I leaned against the armchair. I don’t even know when I fell asleep. I’m sleep-deprived, crumpled from sleeping in a sitting position, but all I can think about is finishing my creative work. I rub my neck with my hand and hear the sound of a garbage truck that has just pulled up in front of the pergola at the back of the apartment building. Strange, what are they doing so early today…? What time is it actually?

Suddenly an alarm signal sounds in my head. I panic, look around the floor for my cell phone, grab it with a pounding heart and freeze.

Holy crap! Ten to eight!!!

I spring to my feet, darting around the apartment like a panicked fly evading a swatting hand.

Blouse, tights, skirt, shoes, purse, phone, keys, jacket, hat. Breakfast doesn’t matter, I’ll have some conference-room snacks at work.

I run outside like a bat out of hell. The cold air sobers me up and I forget that I have slept just a few hours on the floor in a sitting position, leaning against the armchair. I run to the car and at the last moment remember that I have a dead battery after all. Well, fuck! I rush to the bus stop and see the bus coming. Thank goodness! I run inside, people glance at me as if I am wearing a chamber pot on my head. I must have dark circles under my eyes and the wild look of a crazy person, but the only thing I can worry about at this point is the fact that I’m already late for work.

The elevator stops on the floor of my department. I get to the coat rack, leave my jacket (get on there!) and run to the open space. This is my first late arrival since I started working here. Holy shit, never again! I feel like a monkey in the zoo. Fifty pairs of eyes are looking straight at me. Some are smiling under their breath, others are staring with raised eyebrows, some are shaking their heads in disapproval, and some are cheering mutely, “Run, Maria,run!”

I throw my bag on the desk, turn on my laptop and glance at the wall clock. Eight twenty. I made good time anyway. I slump back in my chair, trying to calm my breathing. Maybe I was lucky and Jan didn’t notice my absence. He’s sitting in that hole of his going over some calculations…

“Which bit of ‘eight sharp’ didn’t you understand?” A low voice sounds behind me.

Shit.

I close my eyes. The damn stickler. I know that no amount of explaining will help me anyway because Engler is nuts about punctuality, and even if I climbed to the heights of creativity and came up with some brilliant excuse, he wouldn’t give a damn about it anyway.

“I understood everything. I’m just running late. I can stay longer if there is a lot of work.” I get up slowly from the chair, straighten up, draw in a deep breath and turn towards my boss.

He stands in a slight stride, holding his hand in the pocket of his dark suit pants. His jacket is fastened on one button, his shirt looks starched, his tie is perfectly knotted, his shoulders are broad, and his scent is intoxicating.

He looks me over from head to toe, then stops his gaze on my face, and his eyebrows wander upward.

“What does this mean?”

“Pardon?”

He squints slightly, looking at me inquisitively.

“I am looking for a logical explanation for what I see.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“And what do you seem to see?”

“Your face.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” I instinctively touch my cheeks, as if to check that they are in place.

“If this is not a manifestation of your faith, I would ask you to avoid this type of makeup in the workplace.”

What kind of makeup? I don’t use makeup. I mean, I put on some powder and mascara, but today I definitely didn’t have time for that.

I can hear the muffled laughter of the employees behind me. Well, something must really be wrong with my face.

I turn around, reach into my purse for my phone, turn on my selfie camera mode, and draw in the air so deep that it makes me gasp.

“Holy shit,” I exhale.

The dirty camera blurs the image a bit, but it’s clear as day that I look like some fucking zebra in a painting by a drunk artist! My forehead, cheekbones and jaw are marked with white paint lines.

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