I know I’m flushing because now I’m thinking about
how we hardly got out of bed. I don’t want it to show on my
face, because that’s not the right frame of mind to go into my
boss’ office with. I should be prepared. I should be somber. I
shouldn’t be thinking about how perfect Steph is, how I feel
like a brand-new person, how I feel like I’ve never felt before.
I feel better than good. Better than amazing. Better than
fabulous. I haven’t come down from that natural high, that’s
for sure.
I probably still have this sex-tossed look about me,
even though I know my hair is combed into a perfect, tidy bun.
I’m likely glowing. I feel like a freaking flashlight or
something.
My boss’ door is open and I enter with a knock,
determined to meet my fate.
When I sit down, instead of glaring at me, frowning, or
giving me other negative signals, the guy actually has a smile
for me. He looks happy to see me, which makes me confused.
Unless he really hates me that much and he’s looking for to
firing me. Then maybe that warm, welcoming smile makes
sense. Maybe I’m about to make his morning. Maybe he
thinks firing someone with a frown will cause tears and
protests. Maybe he just wants to deliver the news and shoo me
out the door.
I slip into one of the ancient old waiting room style
chairs in front of the huge metal desk. Why does everything in
this place look like it came from the eighties? Right. It was
probably here when they bought the place and since most of
the stuff was probably put in here before walls were sealed up,
it’s not going to be able to come out. That desk looks at least