Page 33 of My Boss

I look around and recognize the walls of my room. I’m lying in my own bed. The quilt is crumpled up by my legs, the sheet ispulled off, and the pillow is missing. My first instinct is to grab my boobs. Phew. Covered. I’m in my pajamas. What a relief.

I feel like an absolute wet noodle.

God, what a fucked-up dream. I don’t even dare to interpret it. I know one thing—no moreFabulous Dream. Not only do I do stupid things after it, but I also get nightmares.

*

I’ve been nursing my hangover—both the alcoholic and the moral—for half of Sunday. I made a total idiot of myself yesterday in front of Jan: once, when Artur proposed a gay date to him and, by some miracle, he guessed that I had something to do with it; the second time when I sent him my nude photo. I’m so embarrassed I want the earth to swallow me whole. I keep thinking about it and, what’s more, I keep asking myself the same two questions over and over again: how did Jan guess that Artur and I knew each other, and why didn’t he write anything back to my nude selfie?

I can’t think of any sensible answer to the first question, never mind the second one. Because what was he supposed to write me back? “Nice tits, Maria. It’s such a pity the text message wasn’t meant for me”? Or “I’ve already forgotten. Tits don’t turn me on, especially yours.”

I let out a groan of embarrassment and plunge my hands into my hair as I wait for the desktop to appear on my laptop. And this one is working as slow as a tortoise because I forgot to turn it off after my boss’s visit yesterday.

A few minutes later, I see I have five windows open, including Photoshop, a gigabyte glutton. I close the program and notice a new message in the inbox.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Order—Wing armchair

My heart is in my throat. I click on the email, palms sweating, and read:

Good morning.

I am interested in purchasing your wing armchair. Is the chair still available?

TS

Holy Mother of God! I don’t believe it. I had a feeling. This armchair was a bull’s eye.

Without thinking, I click ‘Reply’ and, with trembling fingers, type:

Good morning :)

Thank you very much for your interest. The chair is still available. I can send the armchair tomorrow. You can send payment to my bank account. Please see the account number below. Please provide the shipping address and phone number for the courier company.

Warm regards,

Maria Gabara

I paste my account number, and with a broad smile spreading my lips, I once again read the message and send it. I’m wet with sweat and I stink. Last night’s alcohol and Chinese food is oozing out through my pores. It’s twelve o’clock, and I’m still in my PJs. It’s time for a shower. I get up from the table, and hear the beep of an incoming message. I glance at the monitor.

Oh, damn. The customer has already written back. He must be really interested.

Can’t do a courier. Can I come to pick up the chair directly from you and pay cash?

TS

Well, sure you can.

Of course :D Here is my address and contact phone number. During the week, evening hours suit me best. At weekends, during the day is possible. When would you like to come?

Maria Gabara

This time I don’t walk away from the computer because since the guy wrote right back last time, maybe he’ll answer right away. And I’m right.

After two minutes of staring at the inbox, a familiar sound rings, and with it comes a message:

Today, at twelve-thirty.

---