September 21, 2010

For Sale: Sofa, Almost New, Very Little Wear

You win some; you lose some, she says to herself as she pulls out of the parking garage. There is 2 years worth of office clutter packed into a couple bins in the back of her car. She drives a royal blue Mini Cooper so those couple bins are crammed in tightly. She packed those bins a few hours ago. Today was her last day at work. She was fired only yesterday. It wasn't really a shock. She'd known it was coming for some time now. She'd been on a collision course headed straight for disaster and never bothered to even tap the breaks.

Well, we were having too much fun to even consider stopping, she thinks. Fired for fucking on company time...if there's a way to go out, she guesses that's probably the best.

She wonders what sort of snide remarks are coming out of the sharp-tongued mouths of  the women in the office. They've never really cared for her nor her for them. They made it clear on Day 1 that she would never be welcomed into their little circle and that's just as well. She knew nothing about filing, spreadsheets, tupperware parties, or American Idol nor did she want to.

She thinks again of the boxes in the back. Her red Swingline stapler like the one in Office Space. That's what started all this really. That stapler and trading movie lines. They'd laughed that afternoon until they were near tears. It must have been her 3rd day there. Those old hags had hated her even more. Their misery and jealousy would make them hate every woman who'd taken the time to make something more of themselves and their pettiness could not be rivaled.

There's an odd mix of uneasiness and lust curling around her midsection. She's not sure what the fuck she's really going to do. This kind of thing gets around. Two situations are probably. 1) She won't get hired in another law firm because of the rumors--rumors which will assuredly be worse than the truth 2) If she does get hired, it will be under the expectation that she will fuck the boss to get anywhere. She grimaces in disgust. That was never what this was about.

She pulls into her driveway and realizes she can't remember any of the drive home. She's lucky she didn't wreck on top of everything else. She also realizes she'll probably end up moving. She won't be able to stand in court and seek justice for her clients in a trial if She feels she's wearing a big scarlet "A" on her blazer. Every skirt will be too short. Every blouse too tight or too revealing. The affair was over now anyway, much to her dismay, so she may as well start over somewhere else. It'll work out. She has enough money saved to last her a good bit until she can make all the arrangements and start sending in resumes.

She opens the back and takes out one of the boxes. She wraps both arms around it and walks towards the house. Right on top is the Initech mug she was given her second week in the firm. She'd had it sitting on her desk as a pencil cup ever since. It forged a friendship and the two went out for drinks soon after that. At the time, she'd thought nothing of it. Adults all across the globe went out for drinks after a long day at the office. It's not like they intentionally excluded anyone else; no one else wanted to go. It quickly became a weekly ritual. Thursday nights they'd hit the pub a couple blocks down from work. That place had a killer Cuban sandwich and a pretty decent martini. They both liked them with vodka not gin, extra dry.

She sits the box on her sofa. Memories were created on this thing which still make her blush a little. She thinks it would be best to get rid of it but it probably isn't sanitary. She colors even more at the thought of some unsuspecting child laying around on it watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating the piece of PopTart he just dropped between the cushions. She could never own used furniture.

She retrieves the other box. Calendars, planners, odds and ends from her desk, and the window planter full of fresh herbs--an inside joke about their shared longing for their stoner days. That one hurts a little as she thinks back to the night the conversation took place. They'd gone out for drinks as usual and decided to come back here to her place for whatever reason. A movie? Yes! It was...True Romance. They'd had some dispute over whether or not Christian Slater tries too hard in everything he's ever been in to act like Jack Nicholson. True Romance was supposed to prove he doesn't but this was an awful example as the movie proved.

The kiss came out of nowhere. She hadn't expected it especially while her smirk of triumph over the Slater debate was still stretched in its half-mast position. The kiss caught her off guard and confused the fuck out of her at first. But, she'd opened a bottle of pinot grigio and poured them both a glass. That on top of the martinis meant she didn't really care too much after the initial shock wore off...was it really a year and a half ago? Yeah. She guesses it was. The drug conversation took place in the afterglow of the post-kiss fucking they did. They almost simultaneously wished aloud for some weed which had sent them into a fit of laughter, more kissing, and more sex.

She puts the second box on the sofa not knowing what she'll do with any of it. Most likely it will all go straight to the trash save the stapler. It's gotten her laid more than once now which is funny. It's odd how much having similar tastes in something like films and humor can bridge the gap and bring people into a more intimate spot.

Her cell phone rings. It's not who she wants it to be but what can she expect from fucking someone who's married with 2 kids, a house, a dog, and 3 goldfish? She was kidding herself with all the love business. How could she possibly love someone like that--someone who'd just cut contact with her after this past year and a half?

The phone rings again. It's her best friend, Stephen, who knows her all too well and knows she's ignoring the phone. She continues to let it ring, though. She's not in the mood for all his questions and I-told-you-so's. She'll call him back eventually but now is just not the time.

She looks into the boxes beside her seeing each item her eyes land on in its place in her office. It's tough to imagine that just yesterday she was escorted out of that office after one of the partners walked in to ask her about a case and caught her with her face buried in his wife's snatch. She's never been yanked around by her hair before but just like she said the first night she fucked Marla, the wife, there's a first time for everything.

She sighs and pours herself a glass of wine. Her hair falls in her eyes and for a moment, she almost cries. She pulls herself together in a breath though and reminds herself how much she's missed dick.

about me. not really.

dear you,

i don't talk about my child or being a mom. i don't talk about my garden. i won't mention my craftiness (often) or how much i save each week with coupons. if you're looking for that sort of thing, you're in the wrong place.

instead, let's abandon the tethers of domestication for a moment and remember what it's like to laugh at vulgarity and the world at large.



talk amongst ourselves

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