Worth

Chapter 14 (Pt. 1)

She was off! Charging back to work, fueled by the steam of boiling blood, she was failing miserably to outdistance herself. Despite the momentum and valiant, heel scraping effort, Violet was in fact, still all alone With Stupid. But a lady must remain composed, even if said lady has been humiliated and horrified by a prior scene. With her tears welling and pallor flashing, palpable disappointment kept a deranged fit at bay and both seats one either side of her in a busy subway car empty.

She emerged back onto the street, burning with embarrassment as she waited for the light change at a cross walk. A fragile wisp of a woman, elderly far beyond being told what to do, proceeded into traffic with her rolling walker by wheeling it up and over Violet's right foot at precisely the moment an emotional lump had formed in her throat. Violet could have unleashed a roar so ferocious it would have blown all the old bird's feathers off. Instead she smiled insipidly at the woman who, after re-assessing her chances for a successful crossing, backed her walker over Violet's foot again and said, "Some days it ain't with you."

Even when it is, who says it'll work?

Violet barrelled towards The Grand seeking sanctuary. She could lose herself so as not to lose her mind in faceless phone calls and work minutiae. If she should still want to tear her hair out or scream into a wad of tissue then one, Quick! Look over there! would take care of any meandering staff member long enough for her to find solitude in any of the empty rooms. After falling into the comforting, consoling arms that were The Grand's front doors, Violet slid across the floor, violently posing to keep her balance for a good five feet from the foyer before landing square on her tailbone with an echoing thud. With no pressing reason to get up that she could surmise, she stayed sprawled like an unhappy rag doll a few minutes while her boiling blood cooled to a simmer. She stared at the celestial scene on the ceiling and listened to her own arrhythmic breathing. Yes, she was still absolutely indignant. Yes, her afternoon had been, with an imperious rolling R, an outrage! But what kind of mercy should be shown to the builder of a shrine to a moron?

She rose up on her elbows only to slump over and noticed one of the lifts had worn off her high heel. She ran her finger over the dull nail head that was causing her to skid. "That's it," she acquiesced. With a glower and pout, she picked herself up and wrote a note for the MIA Ed that she was leaving work for the day and going home sick. She was actually revolted. With John. With herself for helping him to the very pedestal he looked down at her from. Her gullibility was at an all time high, her self-esteem spiralling with a wet raspberry in the opposite direction. It was just better to be out of sight.

She hailed a taxi for the ride home. The driver took one look at her and groaned a whispered, "Uh-oh."

"Too late," Violet sighed. "One-twenty Rothmore, please."

Her breathing became more even as she found a moment of calm in the cab. The worst of all of it was that Violet had never been so imperceptive when it really mattered. Her wires were all crossed and knotted. She did not recognize herself today. How could she not have seen that John was an arrogant, ungallant, condescending, suspicious know-it-all? Thank goodness for the short list of witnesses.

She paid the cabbie in front of her building. "Mmph," he grunted and sped away.

Violet realized too late that in her current undone state she had tipped the driver a measly dollar twenty-five. She was mortified at her unintentional negligence. Who was she today?

"Hello, Mzzzzzz March." Peter's neck stretched over his desk too eagerly, too cordially to contend with. Her visible frustration was honey Peter went in for stinger first.  His over pronunciation of the Ms. part of his unusual greeting was to remind her that she was too old to be a Miss and too single to be anything else.