I’m thirsty as hell
Being there, I pour water from the cooler and drink it in one gulp. Oh, how good it is. I feel totally dehydrated today.
I hear a voice right behind me. “I was thinking about your text message.” I turn around and see Engler. He is standing in front of me in a gray triple-breasted suit, giving me the once-over.
I’m racking my brain trying to figure out which text message he is referring to, but I don’t remember any. Was I supposed to prepare something? Brain freeze. My mind goes totally blank all of a sudden.
“What do you mean?” I take a sip of water.
He walks toward me. He is so close now that I have to raise my head to look into his eyes. And they look at me so intensely that I’m short of breath.
Jan leans over, brushes my hair off my shoulder, brings his lips closer to my neck and speaks in a low voice.
“Just say the word, and I’ll suck them until you come,” he whispers in my ear.
“And then I’ll kneel in front of you, roll up your skirt, pull down your panties and lick you until you come a second time.
” His hot breath sweeps over my neck, and with his words, a wave of heat engulfs me from head to toe.
“And then I will take you against the wall and fuck you until you beg me to make you come the third time.”
My heart is beating like crazy. I can feel a crazy pulse between my legs.
I look at Jan bewildered. I’m gasping for air.
His gaze wanders over my face and lips and stops at my cleavage.
He bites his lip sensually, and I hear a low rumble in his throat.
This sound makes me want him to kiss me, to caress me, to do everything he’s talked about.
“Just say the word, Maria, just say the word.” His lustful gaze almost burns a hole in my chest. I follow his gaze down slowly and freeze.
Holy crap, I’m naked from the waist up!
The glass falls out of my hand, shatters on the floor and I cover myself with my hands. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why am I topless?
Jan tears his gaze away from my breasts and glances at the floor. His face momentarily tenses, and a vertical wrinkle crosses his forehead. He looks around, then kneels down on one knee and begins to pick up the broken glass.
“Please leave it. I’ll take care of it.” I need to get dressed first, damn it, or at least wrap a kitchen cloth around my waist.
But he doesn’t answer. He keeps picking it up.
“Mr. Engler. Please let me. I’ll do it.” I lean over, covering my bare tits with my hands.
But he does not pay any mind. It’s as if someone turned on the ‘cleaning’ mode for him.
His face is focused, his muscles tense. He removes shards of glass from the floor, one by one, without missing a single piece.
“Boss?” I look into his eyes, but they are glazed over.
No reaction. It was as if someone had hypnotized him.
“Earth to Jan!”
Or rather, what’s above it?
I wave my hand in front of his eyes. And he does nothing. He is kneeling and picking —a Cinderella separating the poppy from the lentils. Is he crazy or what?
“Mr. Engler. Are you OK?”
He doesn’t even flinch. Holy shit, what’s wrong with him? He scares me a little. I need to sort him out because he’s totally out of his head.
I kneel right in front of him, and I don’t know what’s going on in my mind, but suddenly my mouth gets a mind of its own and starts singing:
“Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?” I sing, with arms wide open. “Brother John, Brother John? Morning bells are ringing. Morning bells are ringing. Ding, dong, dong. Ding, dong, dong…”
I wave my arms, and my boobs sway sexily like a shimmy dancer.
No reaction from him. Zilch.
“Hey, boss. See here—bare tits. Boss!”
No response. Like a programmed robot, with the ‘picker’ mode activated. Damn.
“What’s wrong with you? Should I call an ambulance?” I lean over his face.
Jan’s forehead is crisscrossed by wrinkles, his gaze is focused on the floor in search of another shard of glass.
Well, happy days. My boss went crazy.
But all in all, he got what he deserved, damned workaholic. Just what am I supposed to do now? Get up and leave him here until he gets everything off the floor?
And suddenly I hear the phone beeping. I’m blinded by a bright glow.
I look around and recognize the walls of my room. I’m lying in my own bed. The quilt is crumpled up by my legs, the sheet is pulled off, and the pillow is missing. My first instinct is to grab my boobs. Phew. Covered. I’m in my pajamas. What a relief.
I feel like an absolute wet noodle.
God, what a fucked-up dream. I don’t even dare to interpret it. I know one thing—no more Fabulous Dream . Not only do I do stupid things after it, but I also get nightmares.
*
I’ve been nursing my hangover—both the alcoholic and the moral—for half of Sunday.
I made a total idiot of myself yesterday in front of Jan: once, when Artur proposed a gay date to him and, by some miracle, he guessed that I had something to do with it; the second time when I sent him my nude photo.
I’m so embarrassed I want the earth to swallow me whole.
I keep thinking about it and, what’s more, I keep asking myself the same two questions over and over again: how did Jan guess that Artur and I knew each other, and why didn’t he write anything back to my nude selfie?
I can’t think of any sensible answer to the first question, never mind the second one. Because what was he supposed to write me back? “Nice tits, Maria. It’s such a pity the text message wasn’t meant for me”? Or “I’ve already forgotten. Tits don’t turn me on, especially yours.”
I let out a groan of embarrassment and plunge my hands into my hair as I wait for the desktop to appear on my laptop. And this one is working as slow as a tortoise because I forgot to turn it off after my boss’s visit yesterday.
A few minutes later, I see I have five windows open, including Photoshop, a gigabyte glutton. I close the program and notice a new message in the inbox.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Order—Wing armchair
My heart is in my throat. I click on the email, palms sweating, and read:
Good morning.
I am interested in purchasing your wing armchair. Is the chair still available?
TS
Holy Mother of God! I don’t believe it. I had a feeling. This armchair was a bull’s eye.
Without thinking, I click ‘Reply’ and, with trembling fingers, type:
Good morning :)
Thank you very much for your interest. The chair is still available. I can send the armchair tomorrow. You can send payment to my bank account. Please see the account number below. Please provide the shipping address and phone number for the courier company.
Warm regards,
Maria Gabara
I paste my account number, and with a broad smile spreading my lips, I once again read the message and send it.
I’m wet with sweat and I stink. Last night’s alcohol and Chinese food is oozing out through my pores.
It’s twelve o’clock, and I’m still in my PJs.
It’s time for a shower. I get up from the table, and hear the beep of an incoming message. I glance at the monitor.
Oh, damn. The customer has already written back. He must be really interested.
Can’t do a courier. Can I come to pick up the chair directly from you and pay cash?
TS
Well, sure you can.
Of course :D Here is my address and contact phone number. During the week, evening hours suit me best. At weekends, during the day is possible. When would you like to come?
Maria Gabara
This time I don’t walk away from the computer because since the guy wrote right back last time, maybe he’ll answer right away. And I’m right.
After two minutes of staring at the inbox, a familiar sound rings, and with it comes a message:
Today, at twelve-thirty.
TS
I glance at my watch. 12:07 p.m. Okay, a quick shower and I’ll be ready .
It’s 12:25 p.m. when I step out of the shower with wet hair. I’m almost ready. Let’s hope the guy isn’t on time, because…
The intercom bell rings.
Holy shit. Jesus, how I hate it when someone comes early.
I hastily wrap my hair with a towel, put on my bra and panties, and slip my foot into the leg of my jeans…
Come on! I balance on one foot, falter, lose my balance…
Oh, shit! I grab the edge of the sink, my wet hand slides over it, I crash to the ground, and bang my head against the toilet.
I rub my shoulder against the toilet brush, I fall face down on the tiles, straight into the pool of disgusting water from the brush container. Fuck!
I bounce up like an ass and bang my head against the toilet.
“OUCH!!!”
Christ Almighty. I collapse to the floor again. I see only darkness, my head throbs, my ears ring. Ding-a-ling-a-ling!
It’s the church bells. I must have died.
Rrrrrrring!
No. It’s the intercom. I’m trying to get up. The wing armchair, the customer, I have to get up.
I scramble up with a groan; my head hurts like hell and I literally smell like shit. Note to self—empty the toilet brush container at least twice a week, not just on Christmas Day.
Rrrrrrring!
Wait a minute, you asshole! I’m coming! I pull on my pants, stand up, lean against the sink, and look in the mirror… Mother of God, have mercy on me! I have a red bump the size of a grapefruit on my forehead.
Rrrrrrring! Rrrrrrring!
The sound of the bell pierces my brain. I’ll kill the guy, I swear.
I rush to the hallway. Just as I walk over to the intercom to pick up the entry phone receiver, there is a knock on the door.
I shudder, look through the peephole, and see… a muscleman. Ms. Ala is standing right next to him. Jesus, the guy looks like a thug.
What the…?
I grab the broom I keep by the door, turn the lock and open to face my neighbor and the customer. They both fix their gaze on my chest and part their lips.
I instinctively follow their gaze and… Oh, shit! In addition to the fact that I’m in just a bra, there’s a gross wet spot on my skin. And from what? From the sludge from the toilet brush container. By God, how much of it was there? Blah!