Submission {UNFIN}

Chapter Two.

8:21 a.m., New York City, Vogue National Offices, Top Floor. 

Preparing for the day was a process as usual, but when I deemed myself ready, I grabbed my new Chanel bag that I'd ordered online on priority so as to get rid of that awful last season bag.

Feeling rather serene, I blasted the mellow sounds of SZA's Child's Play in the office, waiting for a longer time than I preferred for my assistant, Rita, to bring me my coffee with exactly two pumps of hazelnut syrup, two tablespoons of Half & Half, and three packets of Splenda. I wasn't sure where she was, and I didn't really care. I just wanted the coffee that she was supposed to have for me everyday when I arrived.

She was new, and she worked the front desk of the floor. Her style was atrocious and her hair was cut in those awful, sparse bangs. I tended to play a game with the new assistants of mine that consisted of me guessing how long they would last before they quit. Only once had an assistant lasted longer than my estimate, but she cracked the following week.

Reluctantly, I grabbed the Laverne Cox article that sat precisely where I left it on my glass desk and began to continue marking it up with corrections in red pen. In the midst of my editing, I heard a soft knock on the other side of my door, and I placed the piece down, praying that my coffee would soon be delivered.

"Come in," I let out with a rather bored tone, resting my temple against my forefinger. As I predicted, Rita came in looking frazzled, but she held my coffee and my oatmeal from Starbucks. Silently, as I instructed, she put my breakfast on the edge of the desk and turned to leave. That is, until I stopped her. "Rita?" Knowing what it was about, she stopped and made an about face.

"Yes, Ms. Knowles?" I took my black cat eye framed glasses off ever so delicately and shook out my flat-ironed bob carelessly.

"What time did I tell you to have my breakfast?" Her eyes seemed to pulsate with fear, or maybe not. Maybe it was my self-trained instincts that allowed me to read peoples' emotions.

"8:20, Ms." Shifting to rest my chin in my palm, I gazed at her with squinted eyes, moving my focus for a split second to my clock that was mounted above the door.

"And what time is it?" With her fingers playing with the hem of her pencil skirt, she bit her lip and seemed to search for an answer. Hadn't she a clue on the time? Hadn't she an idea about the importance of punctuality? Being on time was more than just an ideal for anyone who ever worked under me. It was an expectation. Lateness showed that one had no regard for others' time and it showed lack of professionalism. It was classless.

"Um, 8:45, Ms."

"Do not be late, Ms. Ora." Still biting her bottom lip so hard that I was afraid it might've popped, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms in anxiety. I pushed my glasses onto my made-up face and reached for my coffee, sipping it as I returned to what I had previously been doing with the article until I noticed Rita seemed glued to her spot on my fuzzy, white rug. "That is all." She fled my room, shaking, and closed the door with a gentle thud.

******

8:42 a.m., New York City, Vogue National Offices, Eighteenth Floor.

I finished off my chocolate milk with a chug whilst making my way to my cubicle. My boss already waited there, filing her nails as she awaited my presence patiently.

"Hey, Jocelyn." She jolted her head up from her hands and moved back, granting me access into my workspace. After setting my laptop bag down and momentarily throwing my Horizon milk box into the trash, I took a seat in my cushioned black office chair, leaning back into it for added comfort. Other co-workers milled past and around me, making it a little difficult for her to gain her bearings, but once she did, her face curled into a smile.