The Sullivan Sisters

Sappy and Depressed

The whiskey was aged to absolute perfection. Like a girl blossoming into a beautiful, confident woman, it only got more enticing as the years went by. At that moment, Paloma couldn't imagine doing anything else in the world than what she was right then and there—stretched out on her couch, a savory glass of liquor in one hand and a cheap, fast-food burger in the other.

"Had you not come bearing treats, I wouldn't have let you in." Paloma hummed after indulging in yet another scrumptious sip. "You know how much I hate drop-ins."

The threat earned her a dismissive wave of a manicured hand. "Yet, somehow, I always manage to weasel my way in." Broadening the sly grin on her lips, Ava lazily twisted a free hand deep into her roots until it was lost in the thick forest of her mahogany hair. She batted her emerald eyes, accentuating the flawless mascara that clung to her long lashes as the alcohol washed her over in a gloriously sedated fashion.

"But I really should get home. I have an ungodly amount of work to do." With about as much speed and enthusiasm as a sloth, Ava planted her feet on the floor; having every intention of leaving the loveseat adjacent to the brunette. But she just couldn't bring herself to rise. "Screw it. It can wait 'till tomorrow."

Paloma raised her glass in agreeance. "You need to take a breather. I mean, what the hell are your minions doing these days, anyway? Your department's working circles around mine, making us look bad."

Ava's laugh was soft and light. "Your department's super popular, too. Nowhere near the slums. But you guys probably could step up your game a bit in production and quality. If it was a contest, we'd be winning for sure." A decorated pillow came flying her way. She giggled, sticking her tongue out at Paloma—the unapologetic assailant.

The brunette sat up, relinquishing her glass to the coffee table. "If I was running my department, our numbers would be through the fucking roof." Her forehead crinkled in frustration. "It's been three years and this is, what, the fourth time now that they've passed me up for the job? And they give it to Claudette, of all people? She's a total asshole and has no clue how to run a dishwasher, let alone a department. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure the extra work can be killer, I commend you for that, but I'd kill to be in your position right now."

"Suddenly you're a cosmetology expert?" Ava teased.

"Okay, maybe not your actual position, but you know what I mean," grumbled Paloma. "What happened today, it's shit like that that's pushing me to move on."

Ava's eyes all but sprang free of their sockets. "You can't leave! You're the only thing that actually makes work bearable. Our breaks, the insanely boring interdepartmental meetings, that walk from my department to yours to get to the good coffee—they're pretty much the only reasons I bother to get out of bed in the morning!"

"Can't say I can blame you because, really, my presence is adored by many." Paloma's smirk dissolved just as quick as it formed. "But, sometimes, I feel like I can't see a future for myself there anymore. Admittedly, my articles have gotten a lot more attention these days because, what do you know, some people think I'm a great writer."

"I'm one of those people, okay?" Ava soothed. "You're amazing; never think otherwise."

"I appreciate that, Ava, I do. But if those in power don't think so then..." She shrugged, not masking her bitter chuckle. "It doesn't mean shit. If anything, it reiterates that I'm stuck. Indefinitely remaining one of the many, disposable idiots in my department that feed themselves a crap story about how they'll somehow, 'miraculously' claw their way to the top."

Ava looked at her in horror. "So, that's it? You're just gonna quit?"

Paloma grabbed the whiskey, clinging to it like it was made of gold, and gave herself a generous refill. "...Can't."