Best friends

Ch. 2

You're right in the middle of a blissful dream of which you can't remember the moment your alarm blares on your nightstand.

Fuck. Me. It's Monday.

You get up grumpily and go straight to the kitchen and start making yourself coffee.

You think of Loki and remember that smile he gave you last night.

Honestly, he was probably just thinking about something like a birthday gift, even though my birthday isn't for another month and a half.

You sigh and dump some sugar and cream into your coffee and head to your couch.

It's only six in the morning and you don't need to be at work until nine o'clock, so you take your time getting ready.

You turn on your radio and flip to the classic rock station and Asia's "Heat of the Moment" starts playing.

Three hours later, you leave, freshly showered and shaved. The whole nine yards.

Today's going to be a good day.

That's what you think until you get up to your desk at the office.

You find your boss's wife sitting in your chair behind your desk, looking thoroughly disheveled and irritated.

Uh-oh.

She looks at you like you're a piece of gum of her Balenciaga heels. "You're late", she spits, not moving from your chair.

You check your watch. "It's eight-thirty. I'm early", you spit back, though, a little less venomously, not wanting to lose your job.

"You better watch your tone, girl", she snarls, "I could have you fired faster than you can get into my husbands pants."

You've been down this argumentative path before. Usually your boss, Vincent Sergey, will come out of his office if he thinks things are getting too out of hand.

"Laurene, I need to get to work", you sigh, trying to avoid confrontation.

"'Laurene, I need to get to work'", she mocks me in a horrible baby voice, "you can get to work whenever you stop sleeping with Vin- I mean, Mr. Sergey."

She always insists upon calling your boss "Mr. Sergey", convinced it makes him sound "more official" and "highly professional".

"I really have to schedule some appointments, ma'am, and I'd hate to have to call security on my boss's wife", you say in a measured voice. She's really starting to piss you off and her outfit, if you can call it that, isn't helping.

She's wearing a skimpy leopard print dress that shows all too much cleavage and really only covers the- important parts.

Her hair is teased up in a huge beehive and there's a fake beauty mark on her upper lip.

She looks like a stripper compared to your black dress slacks, black tank top, light pink cardigan, and simple black ballet flats.

She sighs obnoxiously and struts out from behind your desk. The movement of her angry strutting makes her over large breasts bounce and almost come out of her dress.

At one point, you think you see a surgical scar on the side of her breast.

Now, you can see her whole body. She's wearing torn fishnet stockings and six inch stilettos.

The entire scene makes you want to laugh. She looks so out of place in the polished marble and highly professional office.

You take a seat of your desk and cough as whatever perfume Laurene marinated herself in assaults your senses, making your eyes water and your throat scratchy.