Page 15 of My Boss

Exquisite. I can feel myself turning red. A zebra transformed into a fan of Poland’s national colors. Maria, the goal post! The wrong goal, you idiot!

Shit. What a shame. The only thing I can do in this situation is to turn this absurd situation into a joke.

“Please forgive me, I flew straight from Kenya from the Kikuyu celebration.”

“Excuse me?” Jan looks at me as if I were speaking to him in Swahili.

God, what a jerk.

“Nothing. I have to use the restroom.”

I dodge sideways and rush, head down, toward the bathroom.

The wing armchair, which I used for my cushion, did a job on me today. Luckily, I painted the armrests white and not brown. Engler would be ready to think that I had smeared myself with something resembling poop in protest of my working hours.

Mr. Engler, this is a special organic mask made from Andean llama droppings for wrinkles, which I’ve had a hankering for and then some, because since I started working with you, I’ve been stressing like hell.

“Dear, what are you wearing on your face?” Olga stops in amazement with a cup in her hand as I rush down the hallway.

“Don’t ask.” I pass her, open the bathroom door, rush inside and as soon as I see myself in full glory in the mirror reflection, I let out a moan of despair.

Oh, Christ Almighty.

My hair is disheveled like a witch, yesterday’s smudged mascara (how could I have forgotten it?!) makes my eyes look wild, my face has glaring white damned paint lines, the blouse also leaves much to be desired, as it is a bit crumpled and, on top of that, unevenly fastened. A picture of misery and despair.

Well, Maria, you have outdone yourself.

I stare at my own reflection and I recall Jan’s face. I wonder what he was thinking. He’s always so clean, neat, impeccably dressed, shaved and smelling nice. Good thing he didn’t get a stroke at the sight of me. At his age, it’s no longer a joke. Poor guy, he’s probably still standing there heavily shocked, trying to pull himself together.

I glance again at my startling reflection in the mirror and snort with laughter. What a beauty.

Well, it’s time to wash it off. It’s a good thing I used acrylic paint and not oil paint because that would need a solvent. I turn off the faucet, dispense the soap into my hand and start scrubbing my face. The streaks should come off easily after a few minutes of washing. But somehow, they don’t come off. That is, the lines get fainter, they disappear slowly, but my skin slowly starts to look like I’ve got sunstroke.

Get off my skin!I rub my jaw until my skin burns like fire.What the hell?

“This should help.” Olga enters the bathroom, sits down on the sink counter and hands me a sponge to wash up. “Did you know that you are the star of this morning?”

“Engler nearly had a heart attack at the sight of me,” I state.

“At least you provided some entertainment.”

“Certainly not to him. Not even the corners of his mouth twitched.” I rub my forehead with a sponge. It hurts, but it comes off.

“Because he doesn’t recognize a joke. And he never smiles.”

“Never ever, ever, ever?” I glance at Olga, puzzled.

“I have never seen him smiling, and I’ve been working here a while.”

“Even so lightly? You know, kindly, perfunctorily?”

“Even so.”

“Oh, dear. Maybe he’s suffering from some kind of facial muscle paralysis?” I’m rubbing my cheekbone.

“Then I don’t think he could talk,” Olga states.

“You know, he’s not too talkative, either.”

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