Crumbling Cakes

Part VII

This was Hell.

I was in Hell. The Devil had been invoked and sweet baby Jesus, I was the carcass he decided to spear his pitchfork through.

Two weeks have passed since our little showdown at the O.K Corral. Also known as Dalia's Diarrhea of the Mouth in Sebastian's office. My attitude that day had not gone without repercussions—or so I was learning.

Every day since verbally bitch-slapping my boss, he's been on a warpath. And guess who the golden ticket holder was to bear the brunt of it?

You guessed it! Someone give the lucky winner a prize! 

The rest of the team took it in stride. This was obviously not a first occurrence from where they were standing. However, the many pitying looks they threw in my direction indicated that never before had a single employee ever been singled out as the sole recipient of such fine temperament.

If I could go back to right before I opened my mouth, I would have slapped myself across the face, emphatically shouting "Iceberg! Right ahead!". As fate would have it, I was the fallible Titanic, sinking tragically into the frigid ocean from my own piss poor decisions.

The first warning was shortly after my mic drop. I was in the middle of putting the baked goods into the front glass case when Sebastian materialized out of nowhere and snarled "Speed it up Dalia, the case isn't going to fill itself."

Heather,  one of our many talented bakers and Satan's right-hand woman, was standing next to me. Helping. We shared a mirrored look of pure WTF. Only mine may have been a falsehood; I knew exactly what the fuck was up his ass. Much to my chagrin the day did not improve.

Fast forward a few days, Sebastian got a bowl with remnants of yesterday's concoction stuck on the side. He scraped at it disgusted and bore "The Glare" into my forehead. "You do know you're supposed to actually rinse off the dishes before placing them in the washer, don't you, Dalia? Do you need to be retrained with the pre-rinse faucet?" Teddy, the other part-time washer, winced behind The Devil while mouthing I'm so Sorry. That had been his duty the day before for the few hours he was here. I ground my teeth and gave a slight nod, never looking above Sebastian's chin. "Unbelievable." He muttered audibly before tossing the bowl with a loud clash into the sink. 

Or my personal favorite...

"Why don't you just start throwing the ingredients into the trash before we even use them. They seem to end up there anyway." He'd snapped after I slipped in some water, banging my other hip into the counter while the muffins I had been carrying went flying through the air. If that wasn't bad enough, one of them had bonked him square in the chest.

After his remark, my cheeks had felt hot. That one almost made me cry; a reminder that I kept costing him money was not needed but I received all the same. I simply swallowed, cleaned up the mess while averting my eyes, and scurried out of his way.

That's pretty much how the two weeks went. Something went wrong, he flipped out, I hid. If I could catch it in time I would take cover behind whatever large object was closest to me. I would exit any room he walked into. If he was approaching, I would make a sharp turn somewhere else, typically the women's bathroom.

I wish I could say that was the worst of it but life's lessons never ceased to make itself felt. Sebastian was in very bad form. 

Three of his basic designs fell apart as he was working on them, his frustration palpable from across the room. With every failure his demeanor got worse; his mood sour enough to curdle milk. As a team, we had taken to never raising our heads for fear that if we locked eyes with him then we would be the target for a tongue lashing.