Page 9 of Loathing My Boss
Anyway…
I might have cussed, then asked her to marry me because whatever she had, I needed it in my life. You know. Coffee-coveredclearly.
She may have lost herself laughing for several minutes, then insisted we take our honeymoon. Which was code forgirl’s day.
When I said I was on my way to work, she called Viktor’s private number on her own phone, told him his assistant was hers for the afternoon, and put me under a spell so majestic, I am still falling pitifully at her feet.
Such was our meet-cute.
The rest is history.
Sighing dreamily, I pluck my new fork off the table and stab at the lettuce of my salad. When I hit a hidden cherry tomato instead and that cherry tomato launches itself,Crimson’s hand jets out to catch it. She returns it—visibly—to my plate as though nothing happened.
“Still offended you won’t marry me publicly,” I say, stuffing arugula in my face. “Hate me confirmed.”
“Incest is frowned upon in my family.”
“Yeah, so is homosexuality, and the lower class, and women in STEM, and—”
“Lots of frowning, my family does.”
I beam. “Which is why your smile is soprecious.” I jut my lip. “Basically, your family is stinky. They shouldn’t dictate who you can love. Leave them. For me.”
“Tempting offer…I’d consider it, but…the money.”
“How fickle. How shallow. My heart, it bleeds.”
An amused smile flirts with my pretty friend’s perfectly-painted red lips. “As long as it’s the only thing bleeding, I’ll count that as a success for today.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Almost as funny as the very real reason she swiped my butterknife and quarantined the thing on her half of the table when we sat down.
See, I’m notclumsy.
I’m something else.
I don’t fumble and trip over myself like a clumsy person. I don’t cut myself at home. I don’t miscalculate the position of items and, therefore, catch things on fire.
No.
Clumsy would be a blessing. I’m sure, with enough determination, I could figure out a few systems and make a Canva Whiteboard that would gameclumsyinto submission.
I’m simply a distress magnet.
Ovens ignite in my presence. Tires implode.Otherpeople trip. Into me.Constantly.
The knives conspire to stab me, all on their own. I have nothing to do with it.
It’s mypersonal belief that I’m so much of a side character the universe itself doesn’t make allowances for my presence. Crimson says that’s not true, because she saw me, and she sees me, and—yeah…she really does. But I’m not convinced.
What I am convinced of is that being her loveable side character is more than enough.
Beinglovedby one person who gets me is more than enough.
Broaching the topic I’ve been avoiding, she asks, “So, you really have no idea what Viktor wants to talk to you about this evening?”
I sigh, nudging a slice of onion away from a piece of baby spinach and checking for more cherry tomatoes that might be plotting my demise. “Not a clue. You don’t think he’d fire me if he’s still letting me present my findings from these last few weeks, do you?”
“If anyone woke me up by putting an ice cube down my shirt, I wouldn’t just fire them. I’d kill them then and there.”
