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I cracked the top and peered in, confused by the contents.
Why did Catherine have strips of paper stashed away?
Turning the envelope over, I let them spill out on her desk. I chose one and read her neat handwriting.
P.S. You remind me of porridge.
Frowning, I read it again and again, but clarification didn’t dawn. What was this?
I read more, one by one.
P.S. Your cyborg is showing.
P.S. I bet you sing Barry Manilow in the shower.
P.S. You wear pleated khakis on the weekend. I just know it.
It took me until the fourth strip to realize they were all exactly one inch wide and the paper matched the notebook.
Son of a bitch.
I scooped the strips back into the envelope and carried them into my office. There, I dumped them all out again and matched one perfectly to Catherine’s previously written schedules.
My heart slammed in my chest, but my brain was five steps behind. I read more of them, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.
P.S. Are you even human?
P.S. Do you shower in your bathing suit?
P.S. You’ve memorized the lyrics to every single Nickelback song, haven’t you?
P.S. I would rather be trapped in an invisible box with a mime before hanging out with you.
What the fuck?
Understanding slammed into me like a Mack truck. These were directed at me. They had to be. Catherine had written her scathing opinion of me on the bottom of my daily schedules, then precisely cut them off and saved them in an envelope.
There must have been over a hundred.
One for each day she’d worked for me.
Holy shit. That little…
My head fell back as laughter rolled out of me. Thick, rumbling laughter from deep in my chest traveled down my limbs through my veins.
Iknewit.
All these months, I knew Catherine had been biting her tongue. It had always been there, right in front of me, but she’d cut it off. Every time she’d wanted to tell me my cyborg was showing or ask me if I was human, she’d stop herself and save it for her morning ritual.
Christ, this woman. She was something else. I should have fired her for putting me through weeks of being driven insane by paper length, but this was too funny to be angry over.
My little prim and pressed Catherine Warner was an undercover firecracker. I’d always known it, but seeing the undeniable proof was wholly gratifying.
Her insults were so creative and cutting I couldn’t stop myself from reading more.
P.S. Rocks have more emotions than you do.
P.S. I hope both sides of your pillow are always warm.
