Page 12 of Resting Grump Face
“Well,” I begin, “what would you say is your biggest strength, Miss…”
“Ms. None Of Your Business… and restraint, obviously. Otherwise, you’d have alreadyaccidentallytripped and fallen over that balcony railing.”
My cock twitches against the zipper. “For someone as gullible as you, you’re certainly quick on your feet every once in a while,” I respond and earn myself some rolling eyes. “What about your weaknesses?”
“Restraint, obviously,” she answers deadpan and without missing a beat. “Otherwise, you’d already have tripped and fallen over that balcony railing.”
I have to try really hard not to laugh at the insolence of hers. I also have to try really hard not to keep staring. It’s refreshing, to say the least. I mean, I, too, would like to throw her off that balcony, but I am starting to enjoy the struggle that precedes the fall. I’m just not sure yet what to do about all the other things I also want to do to her. “And where do you see yourself in ten years?”
Her murderous stare shifts to a questioning what-the-fuck-are-you-on-about-gaze before she closes her eyes, thinks for a second, and decides to play along. She replies in the most serious, glum tone she can muster, “In ten years? Well, in ten years, good sir, I am probably sitting in a confined cubicle in a cramped office building that vaguely smells of mold, asbestos and resignation.” She appears to imagine the scene before her eyes, her beautiful hair swaying softly through the air. “The clock on the wall is tick… tick… ticking my life away one second at a time. Such a sad little life. On my right is a framed picture of the man I married eight years ago. Only that he doesn’t look like that anymore. He came apart, kind of like the frame that isholding the picture, a crack in the bottom right corner, smudges on the glass, grime on top that no one cares to clean.” Her fingers trace the non-existent frame. “Egbert, my co-worker, winks at me from across the floor and sweeps the Cheeto dust off his too-tight, now off-white shirt. We’ve had sex at the Christmas party and for good measure once or twice after, and although I am disgusted with myself, for some reason, I don’t even regret doing it anymore.
Here I sit, in a worn-out office chair that is exacerbating my already existing back issues, writing video captions for eight-year-old influencers whose parents see them as a second chance at making it after messing up their own lives. I do mental calculations in my head about how much money I will make in the remaining 69 minutes of my shift. After all, I have to justify to myself that staying at a job that hardly covers my running expenses is somehow worth it.
I leave work with the same dull depression that I wake up with in the morning. When I get home, my husband is sitting in front of the TV. He’s not unemployed anymore since the government changed their definition of ‘the unemployed’ to people who are actively searching for a job, something he gave up long ago. The initial shared sense of commiseration has, over time, turned to resentment and bitterness. He angers me. I annoy him.”
I swallow hard as Sienna keeps acting her imagination out for me.
“The door of the fridge is broken. Food doesn’t stay fresh and water is leaking out the bottom. We don’t have money to buy a new one though, so once again it’s questionable leftover lasagna for dinner.
There are two different shades of white on the wall. Back from that one time we tried to fix things by literally slapping on afresh coat of paint. We made it halfway through the living room and kitchen before other things came up.
A steady drip of water trickles from the bathroom sink. I can hear it in between my husband’s grunts as he is pumping inside me—four—five—six—while the drip of water continues, picking away at the cracked porcelain below.” Sienna looks up at me. “For a quick second,what could have beenflashes before my eyes. What could have been if I had only been a bit more prudent, if I had been a bit more sensible, if I had only accepted that job offer and worked for Ryker Might As Well Call Him Saint Grayson.” She takes a deep breath and releases a long sigh.
I can’t help it; I am glued to her lips, enthralled by her story, captivated by whateverthisis, whateversheis.
“But then I remember,” Sienna continues in a sudden, upbeat tone, “that I would most likely have ended up on death row if I had accepted to work for you and things seem a little less depressing.”
I swallow again and do my best not to stare at her piercing eyes, her provocative lips, and her puzzling presence. My thoughts are all over the place, making it hard to concentrate. For a moment, I think about what to say. Impromptu interview is what we were up to. I could finish it by finding out which three things she would take on a deserted island, but I already know she’s the type to bring three machetes. Instead, I try to throw her with one of those final questions that people don’t expect, and that Bruce likes to ask people: “One last thing: How do you deal with stupid people?”
“I mean, I’ve been doing a pretty solid job so far, haven’t I?” She sits down on a loveseat across the room and swings one leg over the other.
I don’t laugh. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Instead, I just stare. I know I am staring, and I know I should stop, but it’s like I am hypnotized. As she shifts in the seat, I catch a glimpseof what she’s wearing underneath. Something black, something with lace, something I have the urge to tear apart.
“Interesting.” I rediscover my ability to speak.
This might get a lot more interesting than I initially expected.
“You will start on Monday.”
“Start what on Monday?”
“Working for me. Have you not been paying attention?”
“Ah, so this was your way of conducting a job interview? Funny indeed, because I thought for you, job interviews look a lot more like the stuff we did back at the airport.”
Flashbacks rush through my mind as another surge of adrenalin makes me worry I might develop an unhealthy addiction here. “You shouldn’t talk like that to or about your new boss.”
“New boss…” she huffs and crosses her arms. “I would never come and work for you voluntarily. You’re the kind of person who… probably eats babies for breakfast.”
I huff back in response. “I really don’t see what my dietary choices have to do with this, but correct me if I am wrong: you need a new job. I have a job to fill.”
“I need a newjob, not a new reason to off myself, which is definitely what I’d be getting if I were to work as your assistant.”
“I’ll pay you $1000 a week,” I say and make some calculations in my head. Offering her a monthly contract won’t be necessary. She won’t be able to endure working for me for more than a week or two. I’ll consider keeping her around for a little longer, depending on how bad the press is going to be about the inevitable airport scandal.
Now she’s the one huffing, not deeming my proposal worthy of an actual answer.
“$2000.”
