Page 37 of Loathing My Boss
“Crim hates her puppy wuppy. Yes, she does. No love for the big buppy duppy doberman. But you? You’re not a puppy wuppy. You’re just a lil guppy. All the love for you, President Potato, who outranks the general.”
I can feel Crimson’s eyes roll behind me, which isbeautiful, because she is normally ever soproper. Furthering her release from elegance, she drones, “This is probably a disorder of some kind.”
I sniff, indignant. “Ye shan’t toot upon our love.”
Her laughter chimes, filling my bedroom with light. “I thoughtIwas your love. I’m heartbroken. You’re leaving me for a fish.”
“Don’t be gross.” Pouting, I shoot a look back at her. “You are mylover. Potato is ourchild.”
“I don’t remember approving to name our child ‘Potato.’”
“That’s because you didn’t. Canonically, I carried him for nine months in my womb, and therefore had the last say on his name.”
“Canonically,” she echoes, dry smile tooting all over our love.
Forcing myself away from my lil guy, I cross my arms. “Your ire is breaking our son’s heart. He needs to know his father loves him.”
Her perfect brow arches. “Never being certain of that builds character. Makes kids funny. Do you thinkyou’dbe funny without trauma, Cris? Not a chance. Do not deprive our son the same opportunities you had in youth.”
Myyouth is a bad example; I did nothaveparents.
Bolstering, I plant my hands at my hips, but Crimson tuts before I can respond.
“Now, Cris, remember our rule.”
I think. I ponder. I say, “What rule?”
“We don’t fight in front of our kids.”
I don’t like that rule. How does she expect Potato to learn how to argue responsibly if we never exemplify the proper procedures? This is why he’s a solo puffer. He’d bite any roommates, because his failure parents never taught him how to use his words.
Now that I think about it…maybe that’s why I’m a solo human.
Shifting genres, Crimson purrs, “Soo…”
“So what?” I ask, plopping myself onto my bed and sighing against Crimson’s shoulder when she seats herself beside me.
Arms wrapping around my waist, she kisses the top of my head. “How are things going at writer camp?”
I broke Viktor for a day, then I broke a chair, then we started bed sharing, then I had a meltdown, then I attacked some guy, then I got a prank letter. I chirp, “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Totally fine.” I snuggle my adoring husband. “There’s a workshop tomorrow. I hope all the newbie authors destroy Viktor’s will to live, and I watch him crumple into a little depressed ball in the aftermath. I might shout,Yeah, that’s how it feels!and he might be incredibly confused for the rest of his days.”
Crimson goes unnaturally still. “Viktor? Since when do you callMr. Bachelor…Viktor?”
I do not like the way it sounds like she’s grinning. Not one tiny bit. “Since he asked me to. Don’t you know I am nothing if not a good little assistant who follows all the rules and never threatens to tattle to other authorities whenever I don’t get my way?”
“Mmmhm,” she murmurs, probably convinced. She’ll likely drop this conversation in about five secon— “After two years hearing you sayMr. Bachelor, why would he ask you to call him by his first name now?”
I lean back so I can look at her enigmatic smile. “Why is your tone funny?”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asks, funnily toned.
“I call all the other Bachelors by their first names.” Viktor’s argument is as good as any for me to use now. I’drather not deep dive into the guilt that compelled me to adhere to his inane request. All things considered, I already regret it. After the way he treated Little Red Riding Hood yesterday, he doesn’t deserve any consideration. Not from me.
Because, the way I see it, there are only two ways to cut this cake.
