The Proposal

It

Gentle fingers caress the earlobes. Hot breath blows over the back of the neck. Now the palm slides under the unbuttoned top of the white shirt. And then…

Ouch!..

Those tender fingers squeeze, starting to twist painfully, the right nipple, and above the temple sounds with the most disgusting intonation in the world:

Fired!

With a crash, the man who fell to the floor opens his eyes, and cold sweat pours from his forehead onto his eyelashes. For in the place of his invisible seducer, twenty-eight-year-old Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat expected to imagine anyone.

Just not... It.

The Assistant of an editor-in-chief at the respectable publishing house. In general -  far from being stupid, he's responsible, promising. In the eyes of the majority. But not his boss...
Gulf Kanawut Traipipattanapong. The same age with Mew. Despite his Chinese citizenship, thanks to his father, he is the owner of a Thai first and last name. This is where the common points end.

For a long time, of course, Mew has been quietly laughing at what a suitable nickname has been fixed for this shark of the publishing business.

It.

The character of the famous horror story for teens and adults. Feeds exclusively on fears. And if you consider on which broken glass Mew dances with his bare feet every time he enters his boss's office, starting to stutter and mumble from any harsh word and mockingly contemptuous look, then Gulf's appetite is simply excellent.

When the Day "X" comes and It fires me I'll buy a red balloon and hand it to him in front of everyone.

And just flip him off with a middle finger.

If he starts sawing, I'll close his mouth.

Someday I'll do that.

Trying to fall asleep for the remaining two hours before the alarm goes off, Mew remembers the grandiose show staged in the office by Gulf's deputy editor whom he fired for a failed interview with a contemporary writer. It is worth paying tribute to Kanawut. All those "overeager ghoul", "there is no personal life, so you take it out on people", "half-of-a-man" his boss listened without blinking an eye and almost without changing his face. Only in a firm voice he summarized what he had heard:

"Come to your senses, Prem. I'm just doing my job."

Sometimes Mew wonders what makes him hold on to this place. Well, except for a good salary, of course. And his inexhaustible desire to spread the printed word to the masses, — how often, with an invariable grin, his boss says. What motivates him to endure endless nagging, morning coffee marathons, weekly overtime assignments, weekend work calls and... a complete lack of respect.

"Cinnamon, not chocolate chips. Is it really that hard to remember?"

"Where is the document with the report that I had in my hand at the meeting yesterday?"

"Do I demand the impossible?"

No. You don't demand it. But how much longer can I stand you...

The duties of the personal assistant of the editor−in-chief are the full support of your boss's activities. And endless "errands" on personal matters. When Mew is not around, he still has to be aware of what Khun Traipipattanapong is doing. And just try not to remind him about the upcoming meetings, briefings and other work routine.

"You're here to please me."

Of course, Gulf. Sure.

"I am not interested in the details of your mistakes. Come into my office with a ready-made solution, not with 'how to do it'. Is it clear to you?"

The manner of jumping from formal "You" to informal "you" and back, depending on the mood, is another stone to the "send everything to hell!"-bowl.

But Mew can't. Mew has a dream. And working in a publishing house, even with Satan himself, is a huge step on the way to it.

If not for one "but".

Rather, one It.

Understanding and condescension to other people's mistakes is not even close to the personality of Gulf Kanawut. And you can at least go out of your way, anyway, Mew is nothing to him. An overgrown errand boy. The maximum approval from Gulf, which he has received for all time, and even then after excellent monitoring of the readership, is:

"Not bad. But it would be great to have got this information yesterday."

Yes. Mew is always late. Even if he does everything within a clearly stipulated time frame.

Because:

"You have to take publishing seriously, Mew. Or not to do it at all."

The melody of a loud sounding alarm clock on the phone brings back to the reality of a new working day.

One. Two. Three... ten.

It's time. It does not forgive tardiness. And a cup of coffee spilled in a hurry and a stain of a far from joyful shade spreading over an office shirt are unlikely to add confidence to me.