“So, Tits McGee put this card on my desk,” he sing-songed. “Of course, this was after she practically shoved her cleavage in my face.” The wide smile turned to irritation. “That girl has about the worst gaydar I’ve ever seen.”
“Aw, poor Dean. So attractive that single women are throwing themselves at him,” I teased.
“Well, you’re about to be thanking poor Dean here in a minute.” He nodded toward the card. “Go ahead and read it, sassy pants. I think you might want to make some changes.”
Huh? I glanced at the front, reading the sentiment. It was, by all accounts, a sympathy card. Someone in the office must have had a death in the family. I opened it and read through everyone’s thoughtful responses.
I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mary. -Patty
You’re in my thoughts and prayers. -Meryl
Please let us know if there’s anything we can do. -Gary
My coworkers were really sweet. That much was apparent.
Lots of love and prayers being sent your way through this difficult time. -Laura
HAPPY! HAPPY! JOY! JOY! Have a great day celebrating! -Georgia
Oh, fuck.
I read it again just to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
My Ren & Stimpy reference wasn’t all that funny when written in the center of someone’s CONDOLENCE CARD.
“Fucking Leslie,” I spat. “She threw a bunch of cards on my desk and said they were birthday cards.”
Dean proceeded to lose his shit, his cackling laughs echoing inside my office.
I glared at him. “It’s not that funny.”
“Oh, hell yes it is. You referenced Ren & Stimpy on a sympathy card,” he wheezed.
Seriously, fuck you, Leslie. Fuck you, hard.
I was convinced I could blame her for everything wrong in my life.
Lost my keys? Goddammit, Leslie!
Missed the subway? Fuck you very much, Leslie.
Another awful dick pic sent to my phone? You’re such an asshole, Leslie.
I sighed. “I’m not even sure how to fix this.”
“White out?” he suggested, still laughing like a lunatic.
“Please.” I waved my hand at him. “Continue to giggle your ass off at my expense.”
“This was literally the highlight of my day. When I read it, I about fell out of my chair from laughing so hard. Pretty sure everyone in the office heard me. Even Meryl was giving me the stink eye.”
“Glad to know I’m brightening someone’s workday.”
He smirked, standing up and snatching the card out of my incompetent hands. “Let’s just throw this card out. I’ll have Meryl send flowers to Mary’s house from everyone in the office.”
I let out a breath of relief. “I’m in full support of this plan. I’ll even chip in fifty bucks.”
“Perfect.”
“Hey, you’re throwing that card out, right?” I asked before he made his way out of my office doors.
He only responded with a shrug and a few more cackles.
Dean was such a bitch. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d have definitely disowned his designer-tag-wearing ass.
As his laughter faded, the annoying crescendo that signaled a text on my phone built.
I grabbed it quickly, knowing if I didn’t read it now, I wouldn’t remember it until the end of the day.
Cassie: I just watched the police arrest two guys for fucking right up against a wall on Broadway.
Not sure how to respond, I said the only thing that came to mind.
Me: Well, it is the Theater District.
I exited my messages, and before I locked the screen, I noticed the little red notification on my TapNext app. A message from BAD_Ruck from this morning made promises of sexual normalcy despite his indiscretions. A truce was in order.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:14PM): Awkward apology accepted.
His response came two minutes later.
BAD_Ruck (12:16PM): Thank God. Though, to be fair, your profile name really does nothing to discourage bad behavior.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:19PM): Ugh. Don’t remind me. I owe it mostly to a bottle of wine and an ill-advising roommate.
I chuckled to myself and then glanced at my watch, compelled to double-check the time even though the display on my phone told it to me just fine.
A pastrami and corned beef on rye from the deli on the corner was calling my name, yelling louder with each passing minute, but every single action of the day seemed to move as if it were coated in molasses.
“What are you laughing at?” Thatch asked from the screen in front of me.
I’d nearly forgotten I was on a video call with him.
“Your ugly mug,” I countered, pointedly electing not to tell him I was having any further conversation with TAPRoseNEXT.
“This face? No way. This is my moneymaker, son.”
“You sound like the biggest douche on the planet right now. Can we work, please? I’d like to eat lunch sometime this century.”
“You and your delicate stomach.”
“It’s not fucking delicate,” I argued grumpily. But he really couldn’t blame me. I was hungry after all. “It’s manly and it needs food on the regular. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Right. Now you’re justifying your PMS symptoms—”