JENNIE
"Wow. Lots to dissect, but calling your new boss an idiot on your first day is my personal favorite." Rosie starts snickering on the sun-speckled street in her bouclé midi dress.
While it's nice to see the sun out because it has been unseasonably wet and cold, I'm still grimacing when Rosie cheekily asks, "Why does this make my day?"
"Because you're a sadist, and I hate you." I hook her arm into mine, and she grins. "I just can't believe you did that. So gutsy. Next time Errol is hovering over my shoulder, I'm going to let him have it."
I roll my eyes. "You're all talk, Roseanne Park. Oh, and please remind me to sit on a colossal ice pack when we get home," I say, not enjoying the shooting pain in my rear. Of course, she gives me a solid whack right there.
"Rosie!" I jump in the air.
Her whole face breaks out into a grin, and I just shake my head, smiling, because it's impossible not to. My literal pain-in-the-ass friend works across the street as a cool copywriter at the coolest ad agency in San Diego, Satchi & Co.
Although she always complains about her job, I know deep down that she loves it. She is also my roommate, and we've been sharing a quaint two-bedroom apartment in Mission Valley for four years. Prior to our upgrade, we lived in a grubby doll-sized place in El Cajon with paper-thin walls and a resident weirdo, Mr. Hoffmeister, who used to sit on a stool outside his front door with a stopwatch and notebook and record all our comings and goings.
Rosie and I first met after I answered her flatmate ad on Craigslist. While I was only her second choice (Rosie likes to regularly remind me. First choice was a mega-hot ex real housewife with a turtle called Rafi. I don't ask questions), I still believe it was a kismet moment because her friendship is a gift, and I can't imagine life without her. Like all great love affairs, however, it was a slow burn. I was slightly terrified by her purple pixie hair and vegan leather pants, and she was unsure of my rotating plaid shirt collection and perennial bum-part hairstyle.
Needless to say, our friendship was helped along by a bit of tequila, and our reluctance to get to know one another was soon forgotten. Our fashion choices and style have also progressed over the years. Mine, albeit at a slower and less voguish pace. Rosie's hair now a more mature blonde and although she is averse to any exercise unless it's shopping, she is blessed with a lean runner's body. She is also honest and funny and never ever laughs at my misfortune.
Naturally, she is still sniggering beside me, so I punch her in the arm. "Rosie! Not helping! Anyway, there's also the office manager, Hailey -"
"The one that wears red and has legs up to her neck?"
My head whips around. "Wait. You know her?"
"No." She sidesteps a puddle. "I can see everything from my office window."
"What like on your freaking telescope?" I reply.
"I'm a very perceptive person, Jen." Rosie grins.
"Think you need to reel in your pen count, by the way. Borderline obsessive." Okay, no one knows about that.
I shake my head. "Oh my God. You're not joking." On the curb, I watch yellow traffic lights turning red with jaywalkers gliding past in thick streams.
Rosie turns to me. "Perfect line of vision. Wave back next time. This isn't a one-way relationship, you know."
"You're an idiot," I snuffle as we scurry across the street."
"Definitely," she grins, and so do I.
Predictably, Rosie asks, "So, Hailey?"
