“Some would say they're rolling in the dough," I joke.
No one laughs. I'm sure they don't understand the pun because their noses are so far up their own asses, they wouldn't recognize a pun if one hit them in the face.
“Anyway," Mick continues. “We need to design a campaign that will target the upper-class citizen who doesn't mind paying an average of two dollars more per roll than their typical toiletry brand of choice."
“A softer ass for a higher class …" I state.
“Madelyn, I don't think you understand the gist of this promotion," Mick suggests.
“It's toilet paper," I correct him. “How hard can it get? I mean … besides the low-grade paper tissue available at the public schools. Maybe prisons?"
“What are you even talking about?" Mick argues.
I don't know if it's his question, the way he asked, or the way his counterparts are all staring at me, but a case of giggle fits rolls through my gut and I'm laughing so hard, tears are dripping from my eyes, and I feel like I might pee my pants.
“Madelyn," Mick snaps. “For God's sake, will you go collect yourself and settle down?"
Still hysterical, I grab my phone, cover my mouth and run out of the conference room, flying face first into a steel-hard chest. Oh shit.
Hands clamp around my shoulders as I'm peeled away from this person's body. I peek through my fingers, finding a concerned look on Wesley's face. “What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to catch my breath.
“Are you okay?"
When my laughter escalates to a level of insanity, it's like a snowball effect, and I can't stop. Every sound and/or touch is funny. I only manage to laugh harder when Wesley asks if I'm okay. I can't even figure out a way to answer him without sounding like I'm hyperventilating.
He's pulling me toward the lobby, and before I know it, we're outside in front of the elevators. “Did he hurt you?" Wesley asks. The way he sounds, I can almost imagine foam seeping through the cracks of his teeth.
I nod my head, no, and try to take a deep breath, one that sounds like a humming tune to an out-of-key song. Wesley still doesn't understand, so he pulls me in against his chest and wraps his arms around me. Wesley's embrace brings my uncontrollable laughter to a halt. He smells like a hint of burnt wood mixed with a jasmine spice. “I'm so sorry," I mumble against his fitted t-shirt.
“I want to make sure you're okay."
“Yes, I—I was laughing so hard—and I couldn't stop. I'm supposed to come up with a promotional ad for toilet paper. Toilet paper of all things. Because breast milk wasn't hard enough."
I feel the incoming of another wave of laughter, but Wesley's face squashes the urge. “I thought something was wrong."
“There is—with those idiots in there."
Wesley straightens his jacket and takes a step back. “Yes, I'll be handling those idiots in a moment."
“Wait, what are you going to do?" I ask him.
“My attorney got nowhere with him, so I need to stare him down until he cracks."
“Stare him down?" I question.
“I've got nothing else in my toolbox."
“Do you have milk?" I snort, trying to keep the laughter at bay.
“No, and it's a good thing you don't either because milkwould shoot out of your nose with this laughing fit of yours," he says. If he's trying to make me stop laughing, it isn't working.
“Nice one, I like it," I tell him, trying to catch my breath.
“Go out with me tonight—just me tonight,” Wesley says. I'm not sure why, but his question knocks the wind out of me. I got the impression last night that things will continue to be linear, or vertical, I suppose.
“Yeah, I would love—shit."
“You would love to shit?" Oh no, another snort.
