21
Follow my dreams and let me know how they turn out.
I've been on the quiet side about my new job at Lacto Natural Central. There's nothing bad about the job, but it's the polar opposite of Virtual Generation. I'm by far the youngest employee like I was at my first job, and everyone is all work and no play. Clients come and go for consultations throughout the day, and everyone seems to have a specific role here. No one steps on toes, which is good, but I've only completed grunt tasks so far because no one has had a minute to integrate me into their marketing plans. They promised me next week will be better and I'll get moving with more of the tasks I've been brought in to do.
It‘s money, and a job, so it is what it is, but I've had time to think about my job history, and I hope these three jobs only count as one type of career. I like the thought of having six more chances still. Somehow, I need to end up in fashion, and this was supposed to be the route I took to get there but I don’t think breast milk will help much.
I have been watching the second hand on the antique grandfather clock tick around in circles for the past hour. The noise was irritating the crap out of me all day because it was all I could focus on aside from the suction sounds crying out of the robotic breast pump model in the lobby, but I guess I tuned it all out while falling into some kind of clock hypnosis.
It's five now, and I know I shouldn't skip out of my new job at the exact minute I'm supposed to be here until, but Wesley is picking me up out front today so I can tag along on to his last delivery of the day.
I give my boss a quick wave through the glass window of her office, but she's on the phone and doesn't seem to notice, which provides me the opportunity to grab the paper bag full of goodies from the staff fridge.
With my coat and bag draped over my good arm, I retrieve the paper bag and flee from the office. As I'm jogging down the front steps outside, I spot the milk truck waiting for me.
“Hey doll-face," he greets me as open the door and step inside.
“Hello, Mr. Milkman,” I purr, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “Mmm you smell good.”
“I think I smell like milk, but whatever turns you on,” he says, biting down on his bottom lip.
“Nope. Nope. I just listened to a breast-pump groan for hours. Try something else.”
“I think I smell like ... I don’t know, I really think I smell like milk,” he says.
“You kind of do.”
“A breast pump?”
“Yes, sir. It is fun stuff.” Super fun. Wesley pulls away from the curb, and it feels like we're on a school bus, but the last seat of a school bus—the one I always chose. I like bumpy rides, obviously. However, If I don't put my seatbelt on, I'll end up on the metal floor of this thing. I try to reach for the seatbelt but find it hanging about two feet behind my seat, which is difficult to reach with my arm in a sling. Never mind the seatbelt.
“I can pull over and help you. Sorry, I didn't think about that seatbelt. It looks like a pain in the ass."
“It's fine. We can't go too fast around here anyway with all the traffic."
“Yeah, but you already have one injured bone." Wesley pulls off the road and up to another curb, jumps out and jogs around the front of the truck. He opens my door and yanks the seatbelt forward and wraps it over me, making me feel cared about. It’s sincere the way he shows me his feelings within little gestures.
“I’ve always thought about all the gentlemen like qualities a milkman has, and you sure are living up to your role."
“You enjoy gentleman like qualities?” Wesley questions.
“Only in public,” I sigh. “But a milkman in the bedroom.”
He gives me a once over and a peck on the lips before closing the door and returning to his seat.
“Whatcha got in the paper bag?" Wesley asks.
“The rest of my lunch," I lie, leaning forward to roll up the bag a little tighter.
As the bump ride continues, I lose myself in a gaze, staring out the window while watching people snicker and point at the truck. It's because it isn't just a normal milk delivery truck. It's like a mailman type of truck, but with milk logos all over it. I have seen nothing like this in my life, which means they were most likely popular before I was around, like when it was a common practice to hire a milkman to deliver milk.
I begin to wave, since the people on the street seem confused. “What are you doing?” Wesley chuckles.
“These people are giving us weird looks. It’s like they’ve never seen a milkman and a lady-friend before.”
“Lady-friend,” Wesley repeats.
“Well, I’m a lady and you’re a milkman.”
