Weak parts really make me sad. Sort of like if you have a favorite author or TV series and you hit a bad book or episode. You just feel the promise that this should have been awesome, only, alas, it was not. That's how I feel about this section. We needed to pass the time and establish some things, but none of the things I needed to establish or show really stand as funny. What's worse, is that to keep on schedule, I had to churn this out in about half an hour. The draft quality shows, and I am ashamed for even doing it. Rules are rules; hopefully tomorrow I will redeem myself with Lucy's morning. I also feel bad about the bouncing back to Lucy. I feel like there was too much swapping recently, and I don't like it.
As always, the Table of Contents is here; the fiction is below the fold
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“Roger,” I said very sweetly as I saw him coming into the studio. I say things very sweetly all the time. But, when I mean to say them very sweetly, it is like a honey snake: Filled with delicious venom. Christine insists there is no such thing as a honey snake. Christine needs to watch more nature shows.
“Whatever your problem is, recall that it is yours, not mine.”
“I just thought I should mention I spent a lot of time with Jon today,” I said. “A lot of surprising, disturbing time.”
It’s funny how you can miss some odious habits that people have. For example. Jon appears outwardly like a very normal, relatively nice person. He’s even, dare I say it? Normal. But, let me tell you: It is all just an act. He doesn’t really like everyone. He remembers everyone’s names, I’m convinced, through evil mnemonic devices.
Sort of like instead of your very elderly mother served, I don’t know, something other than nine pies. Maybe instead of serving, she swore. No, wait. That’s only a little evil. Let’s go with sacrifice, like, human sacrifice. That’s a bit closer.
“Is there a point to this story, Lucy?” Roger asked. I hadn’t told him a story.
“Just that I was spending time with Jon. Very, very well-paid time, mind you. But, I feel oddly dirty afterwards.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Roger said as he handed me a waiver for the person who we had drafted to try the energy drink and say it was delicious. “You’re a speechwriter, not a prostitute.”
“Prostitutes know what they are getting into Roger. I didn’t know.”
“Now you know. What are you going to do with that knowledge Lucy?”
“Let it stew inside me until I curl into a ball under my pile of quilts?”
Roger shrugged and told me to get moving. Which was fair. I had a job to do. I may have deliberately forgotten to bring Jon his coffee when I was supposed to. That is, of course, impossible. You can’t deliberately forget something. It was a malicious forgetting.
We finished shooting about a half hour early. I was able to slip out before I had to talk to Jon or Roger. I was cold and insulted, but you could barely tell my car had been wrecked by some road savage out of a Mad Max movie this morning. I knocked on my own apartment door before I entered; I even loudly called out: “Hello. I’m home.”
I found a note from Christine telling me that Peter had to leave early. She also told me where she had put the left overs. Also written: “And I’ll tell you where you can shove the left overs if you can’t be civil to Peter.” Christine’s threats weren’t like mine. They weren’t idle; the only cat fight I’d ever seen had involved Christine and some woman at the store. Well, it wasn’t a fight like if I were to say two guys had a fight. I mean that they were disdainfully polite and provocative to each other, which is like a throw-down among cultured people.
I left a note for Christine: “Have to cancel on Saturday. Forgot I had a new job then. Think you can go one night without me (or Peter?)” Then I went to bed. I piled the covers a mountain high and did everything I could to stop thinking about the day.