All my bullshit comes from how I’ve been used by the friends I’ve had in the past. I learned not to trust people a long time ago. I haven’t been given a reason to change my mind about my expectations of people and their behavior.
Not yet at least.
I’m not exactly holding my breath either.
“I know,” my voice is soft like it doesn’t want to make waves or take up too much space, especially if Cindy is going to get mad and lash out at me. She hasn’t before, but I’m waiting for it. Isn’t it inevitable? “It’s not like I don’t want to, but I need to pack up some things for tomorrow’s market. It’s going to be a few hours of work, and I have to get up early in the morning to set up.”
I don’t share a lot about what I do outside of work with Cindy or anyone else, but I have mentioned selling at markets before. Markets sound better than conventions, which is really where I sell things. I love them, but I have a feeling Cindy wouldn’t agree.
Or maybe she would.
It’s not like I really know her.
When I look up at Cindy, her eyes are glazed over, and I realize she didn’t listen to anything I had to say. Suddenly she snaps to attention and sits up straighter while her smile widens as if it’ll be enough to blind me.
It won’t.
I’ve seen past the mask now.
“I understand,” she sighs as if extending some empathy or understanding is just a little too much of a burden. She points at me and shakes her finger slightly in admonishment, “But next time I’m not going to let you get away with turning me down. You should get out. You’re young,” she presses a hand to her chest and leans toward me before stressing, “we’reyoung. We deserve to have a good time.”
“You’re right,” I offer her the words, but I don’t really believe them.
Something flashes in her eyes that tells me she knows I’m only telling her what she wants to hear and have no intention of going out with her. Or anyone else from the office.
What she doesn’t know, or maybe she doesn’t want to realize, is this job is not my dream. It is what I do. It’s what I get up and do day to day, but there’s no passion here. Bills have to be paid. That’s just how it is.
I’m not sure anyone could muster up excitement about working at an insurance company. There’s no glamor in my cubicle. Or any of them. It’s mind numbing and I wonder how the other people around here deal with it.
Maybe for them it’s going out to the bar with coworkers. Who am I to judge?
“I hope you have a good time, Cindy,” my words are sincere and she blinks for a moment in surprise.
Then, with a wave, she’s gone. Probably back to her cubicle to finish out the last few minutes of the day and get everything shut down.
I do have a moment of wondering if I should have changed my plans and agreed to go out with Cindy. It probably wouldn’t hurt anything. Unless something goes wrong, or it turns awkward and then it throws off the routine of work. Since I can barely handle as it is, disrupting the flow would suck.
Getting home takes as long as it always does. Knowing some short cuts does help and the fact that I don’t have to go to the other side of Denver, but there’s still just a lot of fucking traffic. There’s nothing to be done about it. Other than jam out in the car and make mental lists of what I need to get done tonight.
The event tomorrow is going to take all of my focus, energy, and effort. I’d much rather be at home, but I do love it when people enjoy my treats. What can I say, I’m a contradiction. Would it be fun if I made complete sense?
When I finally make it home, I grab the delivery box before scurrying inside. Carrying treasure inside my domain feels like a victory. It’ll make a nice addition to the hoard.
I don’t even care how ridiculous that sounds. I already know people are going to love the chocolate made from this mold. It’s fun; what’s not to like?
The moment I step inside my home, it feels like I can really breathe. Pascal and Cap come trotting toward the door from the kitchen. I’m sure they were contemplating my death over their empty food bowls just before I walked through the door. Now that I’m here, hopefully, I’ve saved my life.
At least until tomorrow.
“Hi babies,” I coo at my cats as I put everything down and putter around my house until I make my way into my bedroom after leaving the pacifier dick mold on my kitchen counter. Or should it be a dick pacifier mold?
When I snicker, Cap gives me an epic side eye. But he’s always been a little judgmental. I think it’s because of the star on his chest.
I knew what his name should be the moment I saw the white fur on his otherwise dark tortoise shell coat. He was just a kitten then. Now he’s grown into himself while having an overinflated sense of justice. Cat justice, of course.
He’s very demanding and judges every decision I make. The judgment is especially strong when my decisions involve leaving him alone with only Pascal. They get along just fine, but Pascal isn’t capable of feeding Cap or giving him treats. You would think I committed a crime by not being home to cater to his whims.
Pascal is easy going and rarely judges me. Of course, he would be happy for me to be home as well because he does like treats. He’s also okay with having hours of uninterrupted nap time. The boy loves a good nap, and I can’t say I blame him. Who doesn’t like a nap?
