Page 2 of Resting Grump Face
I take a deep breath, stare off into the distance, and watch as the handsome stranger without manners slips a TSA agent some money and is escorted past security, leaving his dejected entourage of one behind. Looks like I’m not the only one having a bad day.
“I assume strike three will happen the next time I come in late to work?”
“That would be a fireable offense then, wouldn’t it?” Judging by his cheerful tone, Mr. Sake might as well be sitting in a strip club right now rather than in his office.
“Well, Pete, don’t bother. I quit. I’d rather hire an army of hitmen to hunt me down than spend another day of my life working for you.”
“That actually sounds like a well-thought-out plan,” he replies. “Let me know if you require any additional funds. I might be willing to pitch in, since it would be for a good cause.”
Fuck.Envelopes with a thick red stamp saying ‘Final Reminder’ and ‘Overdue’ appear before my eyes, as does the worryingly low dollar amount that I have in my bank account right now. I couldn’t even hire a cab to take me to the airport, much less a single hitman to throw me off the plane, though that’s something I can probably manage on my own for free. As I stare into the void, an uneasy feeling settles somewhere deep in my belly.
“I am probably legally required to tell you that was a joke, as well as that this phone call is being recorded. So if you want to hand in your resignation in writing, that would be appreciated, but I accept it verbally right now.”
I snap out of my thoughts and try not to let him know I may already regret my decision. “Great, well, with small due respect, Mr. Sake, I hope your day is as wonderful as you are, and, oh, don’t forget to apologize to your mother for the way you turned out.” I hang up the phone, squeeze my eyes shut, and let out another deep sigh.
What a terrible start to my vacation—or rather unemployment.
“Damn,” a voice next to me mumbles a moment later.
When I open my eyes back up, I look at the smudged makeup of Mr. I Bribe My Way Through Airport Security’s assistant, or possibly his now former girlfriend.
She sobs a little. “That’s what I should have said to him when he fired me.”
Assistant it is… was.
I nod slowly and give her a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. The universe has a way of working itself out. They’ll get what they deserve,” I answer, trying to make her feel better. “And if they don’t, someone might just have to lend the universe a hand,” I add under my breath.
His former assistant sobs again, uses her sleeve to wipe her nose, and lets her head drop. “Maybe,” she says with a sigh, and then proceeds to exit the airport, glumly dragging a silver-pink suitcase behind her.
Unfortunately, I know better. Nothing ever happens to people like Peter Sake or her former boss. Not unless the universe gets a little kick in its behind. Which is why my thoughts are already revolving around how to get back at him. I should probably inform the authorities, call the IRS or whoever you call in a situation like this. I would probably call the authorities if it wasn’t for the fact that I have zero tangible proof for any of his crimes and that Pete probably plays golf with whoever is in charge at the appropriate government institution.
Stuck deep in my thoughts, I barely notice that it takes another ten minutes to get past security, despite having been in front of the line for quite some time. After making it through, I wander towards the duty-free area and the gates behind it, and decide to put all thoughts of revenge, retaliation and retribution on hold. This was supposed to be a happy weekend. My best friend is getting married to the love of her life and I couldn’t be happier for them. Of course, I could be financially more secure, in possession of a job that doesn’t feed on my soul,and in a loving and trusting relationship with a rugged, yet emotionally intelligent man who’d never embezzle any money or fire employees simply for having a backbone. But, like I said, the universe is an exceptionally cruel place.
When I walk into the first shop that I come across to look at the humongous Toblerone in their natural habitat (as one naturally does at an airport), I stop dead in my tracks when I discover Mr. Handsome Without Manners in front of the souvenir section of the store. Quickly, and without knowing why, I duck behind the aisle right next to me. When I remember that we don’t even know each other, I slowly stand back up. Our eyes meet for a second and I can almost feel my knees give out. They must be truly tired from standing in line for so long. Of course, he wouldn’t know what that’s like. If anything, his back might hurt from carrying his overflowing wallet around.
He’s sporting an expression on his face that is clearly meant to deter any person from approaching. It’s something between grumpiness and condescension, with a dash of violence. I grab a magazine off the shelf and pretend to read while observing the man in his bespoke suit that probably costs more than a hitman’s salary.
How much do they charge these days anyway?
He grabs a pair of whimsical socks that make your feet look like you’re wearing shoes (odd choice), then walks over to the alcohol section and reaches for what I assume to be the most expensive bottle of whiskey they stock (which makes more sense).
The way he carries himself is annoyingly mesmerizing. It’s like he owns the place and everything in it. His movements are calculated, precise, exuding confidence, and I hate it. I hate him. The longer I look, the more aggravated I get. Beauty is always wasted on the douche bags who fire good employees for no good reason.
Maybe just a smidge of revenge, retaliation and retribution would be acceptable?
At the checkout, he grabs a box of condoms. I assume his assistant was carrying those for him, and now that he’s done fucking her (over) he needs to replenish his supply. After paying, he walks towards the gates, with me, unbeknownst to him, in his tow. As I follow him around, I imagine all the things I could do to him, which range from spilling a sticky coke on his crotch (he’d be getting off easy), over hiding his carry-on suitcase (I wouldn’t get off easy if caught), to screwing his brains out in an airport restroom (alright, now I’m losing it). Preferably twice (yep, already lost it).
Maybe this whole getting fired thing —I mean this whole preventative quitting thing— is getting to my head a little.
Eventually, we turn a corner and approach a somewhat secluded area where the VIP lounge is situated. I stay behind as the friendly lady at the entrance bids him inside without even checking his papers. I guess she, too, could tell that he just seems to belong there. Once he is inside, I walk towards her, rummaging through my bag in search of the ticket that Olivia and her soon to be husband, Phoenix, had sent me. The lady gives me her best smile and, with a cheerful tone, asks for my boarding pass.
“I guess you can’t let me go inside without one, can you? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. We’re not allowed to do that. But even if you don’t have a ticket that includes lounge acce?—”
“Aha,” I exclaim and pull out a crumbled piece of paper that I hand to her while trying to keep track of my target. “My ticket.”
The lady, using her glasses, brushes a strand of hair off her face and inspects it thoroughly, costing me valuable seconds. “Very well,” she finally says with a smile while returning the sheet of paper. “Enjoy your stay and have a pleasant flight later.”
