Letting your rage do the writing for you, you hit reply:
… the snowplow has absolutely buried my car. I dug it out, but I can’t get it to start, now. I’m going to be calling my mechanic–so much for that warranty!
You hit send and then shuffle to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.
Maybe you’ll catch up on that stack of New Yorker magazines you keep meaning to get to, maybe bake some bread? Or there’s always candy crush…
Just as you’re about to grind up the coffee beans, your phone pings.
It’s an email from your boss. Shit.
Marcia just sent me an email saying she has the snow tires on and is willing to pick up stragglers. Text her here and she’ll get you.
“That brown nosing little shitbag…” you mutter.
Perfect! You reply.
“Of course sometimes I like my eggs over-medium instead. A good over-medium egg is hard to get right. Though that’s not most days. Most days I’m an over-easy gal.”
You nod, hoping your grimace looks close enough to a smile. Marcia is easily the most tedious person you’ve ever had the displeasure of speaking to, and this car ride–your work is barely ten minutes away most days–has been inching down snow-covered streets for an hour and a half now.
“Toast, on the other hand, I like a little burnt…”
Just as you’re finally pulling up to the office, your phone pings again. What now? Is your boss going to chastise you for being late?
Looks like I was being too optimistic! Please stay where you are and work from home if possible. Be safe and warm!
What the fuck!
“Did you see this email, Marcia?” You try to sound calm. “Maybe we should just head back.”
“No, we made it all the way here,” Marcia says, unzipping her coat and shaking the snow off her perm. “No point in not taking advantage of that!”
She snickers to herself. You stare out the window, your horror mounting. The snow’s coming down faster, now.
“I think we ran out of coffee yesterday,” she adds, waddling off towards the break room, “but I can make us some instant!”
“How much Splenda should I put in?” Marcia yells.
You don’t respond. The snow is so thick you can barely see past the windows, now. Every minute you stay here is a minute closer to getting stuck here.
“Should we go, Marcia?” you try again.
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