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Ihatedmy job.
By the time the subway pulled into the station closest to my house, I was a sweaty, disgusting mess. My hair had fallen out of its artfully styled chignon. My feet had blisters the size of pancakes from traipsing all around the city in the sweltering summer heat. Harlow’s pretty blouse had a coffee stain across the right boob where I’d tripped and spilled Rowan’s coffee down the front of myself—meaning I had to go back and wait in the long ass line at The Bean asecondtime. And I was pretty sure a panhandler shoved his hand up my skirt on the subway ride home. The whipped, puss-y topping on the shit sundae that was my day were the million and one text messages I received from Rowan needing me to run yetanothererrand.
None of those messages were of himasking. Oh, no, they were rude and demanding in nature, and I had to stop myself on multiple occasions from hurling my beloved iPhone into oncoming traffic.
By the time I made it back to his apartment with all his requested items, the coffee had long since grown cold, mimicking his icy attitude.
As I limped up the steps to mine and Harlow’s apartment, I kept thinking of all the reasons I wanted to quit, following closely with all the reasons I couldn’t, i.e. my rent and other such necessities.
“Hello, pumpkin. How was your first day?” Harlow asked in an all too chipper voice once I came through the front door.
“I hate my boss!” I yelled like a crazy person before collapsing to the floor and spreading out on the cool, laminate wood, basking in the feel of it against my overly heated skin.
“What the hell? What happened?” Harlow asked as she took a seat on the floor next to me, brushing my sweat-slicked hair back from my face.
“You mean other than working for a twat-waffle who's the love child of Satan and that 'Mommy Dearest' lady?”
“You mean Joan Crawford?”
“That’s the one.”
“Was he really that bad?”
“Remember that asshole William Chandler from sophomore year?”
Her face scrunched up as she tried to recall who I was talking about. “You mean that dickhead football player, who used to bark at all the girls he thought were ugly?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, shit. That bad?”
“Multiply that times a million and you’ll have Rowan Locklaine.”
Harlow’s gaze grew sympathetic. “Aww, sweetie, I’m so sorry.”
“And if that wasn’t bad enough, I’m pretty sure I lost my no-no hole virginity to a hobo on the subway.”
I was being completely serious. So when Harlow let out an indelicate snort and collapsed in a heap of hysterical laughter next to me, I couldn’t find it in me to share with her in the humor of the situation.
“I’m glad you find my pain so hilarious,” I deadpanned from my spread-eagle position on the floor of our entryway.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sputtered, tears trailing down her face. “I know it’s not supposed to be funny, but you should see your face right now!”
I was just about to respond with something brilliantly snarky when my cell phone rang from inside my purse. With a groan of pain, I twisted sideways and retrieved it before going back to my original position.
“Shit,” I muttered as I looked at the screen.
“Who is it? Is it him?”
“No, it’s Lauren. Probably calling to tell me I’ve been fired.”
Harlow whacked me on the shoulder, eliciting a pout from me. “Stop being so negative. Answer the phone and I’ll go pour you a glass of wine.”
“In the big glass?” I asked hopefully, referring to the wineglass-shaped vase we found on clearance a year or so ago. It was what we considered our 'emergency glass'.
“Yes, in the big glass, you big baby. Now, answer the damn phone already.”
Steeling my resolve, I slid my finger across the screen and held the phone up to my ear, prepared for the worst.
