"Chrissy! Open the door!"
Just as I'm watering my beautiful kumquat and trying to distract myself, the phone beeps, and I growl as I realize that I'm not the only whose day was ruined because of Mr. fungus's annoyingness.
Is this your hot boss shou...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Agh! Why won't this freakin' drawer open already? It's thirty years old, that's why! I refuse to have my caramels rot in that stupid drawer. Ashton has the nerve to take them away from me. He should look for another way of teasing me. Next time he pulls such a stunt when my uterus runs its monthly bullying session on my body, he'll be needing much more than an ice bag to put on his face.
I'm coming my babies, hang on!
Pumping as much energy as possible into my veins, I secure my feet on top of Ashton's desk, locking then unlocking my fist until it clutches perfectly around the drawer handle. Blood having circulated far too fast for my body to apprehend; I feel my skin heating up as I maintain the pulling momentum.
Bluntly staring at me, the wooden handle mocks my mediocre attempts, almost blaming me for not setting foot in the gym this year, or this lifetime. Although my muscles feel on the verge of withering and shedding, I try to keep up the pace, insisting on glaring at the drawer in the process.
The last bit of energy left in me having almost protruded with the surrendering sigh I let out, I roll away from the desk, mourning the caramel nibbles I've just been oh so cruelly deprived of the silky notes.
"Stupid drawer!" I scream, sending my foot to smash against the storage unit of hell. My kick having barely generated a resounding echo, the drawer stares back at me, not minding the deep humiliation taking over me.
Just then, and as I prepare for my walk of shame out of the office, I hear a mere squeak before the handle I'd been quarreling with jumps away from the desk, rolling its way to rest against the sole of my shoe. I think this means I won.
"Just how did you break it?" asks the handyman, his head erased under the desk, counting on his disgustingly hairy belly button to surveil me before I break another piece of furniture.
Insisting on camouflaging the repetitive gags spasming my body, I join my arms in a self-comforting hug, and explain myself, "It just fell off!"
"Missy, these desks were made years ago, their handles don't just fall off."
Is this man here to fix the drawer or interrogate me? I've broken the handle, and that's that. He better put those tools shoved up his ass to good use, and get me my caramels before Mr. Fungus makes it back here to laugh at me.
"That's what happened!"
Having finally finished lying around and covering his abdomen, he stands near me, neck struggling to bend. Just as if he'd found a long-lost fugitive, he runs a quick scan, assessing my body language before making his last verdict.
Only the beads of sweat peaking at him from the comfort of my pores are far too obvious to overlook. Refusing to leave me room to breathe, he takes a few steps back towards the desk and then takes out a screwdriver he had somehow completely shoved into his back pocket.
With a couple of magic shakes, hits, and mandatory curses, I finally see the light protruded from the inside of the treasure chest. It only takes the man a couple more pushes and pulls and he finally releases the hollow box, revealing my gems in all their sweet once forbidden glory.
