AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Besides, I paid for the bill out of my own pocket and assured her that while I secured the hostess’s phone number, I deleted it from my phone the next day.
I think she believed me.
On Sunday she emailed me a few articles of hers as a sample of how long my portion of the column should be. I didn’t open them until Monday. What kind of a masochist works on the weekend? Some boyfriend she has. He should be lounging around with her reading the paper. Refilling her coffee. Stripping her shower-warmed body out of a skimpy silk robe and...
Anyway.
I’ve studied her articles until my head ached. I’ve pecked out my own words until my eyes crossed inward. She’s good. Really good. Much better than me. But I don’t want to be a writer when I grow up. My goal is to return to the limelight. I want my field reporter position back and for that to happen, I need some attention. You may not believe that my behaving like an asshat in public is a smart route back, but you’d be wrong. Mia loved that stunt. She clapped me on the back—hard, I might add. She’s as strong as she looks. She praised my attention-grabbing ability. So don’t go worrying about something crazy like our precious Kitty Cat losing her job. She’s aces with the boss.
While I’m not looking to win a Pulitzer with this article, I would like my writing to be at least complementary to my cohort’s rather than hers shining for the world to see and mine reading like it was written by a bag of hair with a laptop.
The bar’s high, not for my sake but for Catarina’s. She takes her job seriously and I take her seriously.
The other notable change on Monday was that she moved her desk to face my cubicle again. Either she was tired of having her back to the rest of the office or it threw off her feng shui. Hard to tell. I helpfully concluded that she missed looking at my face, to which she offered a droll, “Sure, Fox, that’s it” without looking up from her computer screen.
I push away from the desk to stretch my arms overhead. I’m not cut out for office work. I’ve come in here three days out of five this week and it’s been torture. I can’t take it any longer.
Unfortunately, my writing is as slow as molasses. On a turtle. In a deep freeze.
I’ve been given an extension through the weekend though Mia made it clear I’ll have to step up my game for the future articles. They’re running ads online as teasers—the banners are animated and feature one of my shirtless calendar photos and a professional, arms-folded-over-her-chest, no-nonsense shot of Catarina with the tagline “A Summer Treat with Blistering Heat.”
Lame, right?
The lengths I’ll go to for a job back in front of a camera.
I wave to Mills when I exit my cubicle and then to Nanci, whose reaction to me has dimmed some. No longer does she fidget and blush when she sees me, but she does offer an excited wave and smile so I haven’t completely lost her yet. I prefer when they stay impressed. It’s easier for me if I don’t have to prove myself.
I walk the short distance to Catarina’s desk. She doesn’t look up, but she knows I’m here. I cleared my throat twice on the walk over. Her, I’ve yet to impress. At this rate I may never impress her.
“What do you want, Fox?” Her fingers don’t so much as slow over the keyboard.
“Let’s get out of here. Take a walk. I’m going crazy. How do you sit in here all day?”
She glances up at me, a study of impatience and slow blinks.
“Are you seriously still angry about the cigar thing? I have to tell you, it’s immature.”
She stands, shuts her laptop, and rounds the desk. I watch, startled not because she’s walking away from me, but because she’s doing it in flip-flops. A black pair with rhinestone straps. She turns and lifts her arms into an impatient shrug. “Well. Where do you want to walk?”
“That worked? All I had to do was ask you to go for a walk?” I jog to catch up.
“Don’t push your luck. Where to?”
“Outside. I beg of you. I’ll buy you a hot dog.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Coffee, then. A bagel. A gram of cocaine. I’m not picky as long as we can do it outside.”
We step into the elevator and she pokes the ground floor button.
After a few seconds, I have to ask. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” she clips.
“Come on, Kitty Cat. Something’s up. I can tell because your hair’s not as bouncy as usual. Your outfits have been a carbon copy of each other. White blouse. Black skirt. Either you’re taking after Einstein and wearing the same thing every day or else it’s a cry for help.”
She points to me in the empty-except-for-us elevator. “You wear a version of black pants and white shirt every day. Why can’t I?”
