Find your peace and tell it to stay in the room. We have bills to pay.
“Not a problem.” My lips purse, but my hands remain steady over the lilac pantsuit I wore for the occasion.
Whoever said “dress to impress” was onto something. I always rise to the occasion and impress myself with my ability to keep calm and not drag the CEO across his lacquered desk. The thing costs more than the company’s allotted furniture budget and fits perfectly in the glass box he calls an office.
Pretentious.
Overpriced.
Grossly overcompensating.
Mr. Hamilton hasn’t looked my way once since I entered his office. I’m nice, but this battle will need to be the Lord’s and not mine in a minute. I’m not above getting ignorant if the mood strikes. Right now, said mood smacks me in the back of the fishtail braided bun I spent an hour making look cute.
I’m on a mission and nothing will deter me.
I should be on somebody’s yacht right now, in a high-waisted bikini with a freshly waxed bootyhole aimed at the sky. Memorial Day was the perfect long weekend to treat myself. I had every intention of using the two extra days I’d taken off from the source of my ulcers.
Five days on Martha’s Vineyard with the few “friends” I’d gained from an app for thirty-something professionals too busy to meet new people. I used the term “friends” loosely. They’re nice, but also vetted strangers who wouldn’t kidnap me and would make good company when I don’t want to eat dinner alone.
Every pastel, polo, and sundress in my closet was in my suitcase for me to look like a Ralph Lauren photoshoot in Oak Bluffs. I just knew my toes would be in warm sand and my back would get cracked. I’ve lost track counting how long it’s been since someone else made me orgasm.
All the more reason to enjoy my trip… Except I never made it onto the plane.
I spent my weekend on the bathroom floor after a trip to urgent care last Thursday. Stress, indigestion, and diarrhea tore my ass up in the office bathroom. I’ve been working around the clock at Hamilton Capital, only for me to waste yet another vacation talking to a doctor too fine for his profession who told me I had hemorrhoids.Hemorrhoids!
A quick procedure saved my butt—literally—but didn’t stop Mr. Hamilton from calling me about non-emergencies, as if I were his personal assistant and not the HR manager.
Days with aloe vera gel, ice packs, and coconut oil gave me plenty of time to rethink my life decisions. Why was I putting up with incessant work emails and a boss who never cared to ask if I was okay after leaving work for emergency care? I know the corporate game, but I’ve remained determined to shatter ceilings for the next women coming up, itchy ass and all.
So here I am, reaffirming my boundaries and fighting for what’s mine.
I shift in my seat and mentally recite the words of affirmation on my bathroom mirror.
I am chosen.
I am worthy.
I will not settle for less than I deserve.
“Mr. Hamilton. I—“
“Be sure to adjust your forecast to account for a ten percent staff reduction.”
“What?” Clearly, I misheard him.
“Is the sexual harassment training necessary?” His sausage fingers jab the keyboard.
Yes, when your inappropriate jokes about Agatha’s camel toe land you in my office.
“Mr. Hamilton!” I pinch the bridge of my nose as the last thread of my patience snaps. Between hemorrhoid recovery and monologues about city-mandated trainings, I’m at my limit.
The low hum of the air conditioner mixes with the parade of associates rushing to their next client meetings. For the low price of a fifty-hour workweek and chasing the stock market, you too can be an investment advisor married to burnout at Hamilton Capital.
It’s not easy battling corporate culture that prioritizes the bottom line, but as the HR manager, I do it with a smile on my face and Tums in my desk drawer. The least Mr. Hamilton could do is not glower at me like he hasn’t been playing in my face while hopscotching over my personal boundaries.
We have bills to pay.
A vein sprouts from his forehead to tap the roots of his gray hair, combed back with enough gel to withstand a hurricane. Parker Hamilton isn’t an ugly man, but karma is wrinkling him quickly, his skin souring like milk. His wife has to be the strongest soldier to deal with him.
