Mr. Carmichael took the receiver of
his office phone and lightly bashed himself repeatedly over the brow, scolding
himself into his chest.
“Mr. Carmichael, are you alright in
there?” His assistant knocked worriedly on the door and without waiting for a
response let herself into his office. Her pencil skirt locked her hips in place
giving her a walk that the other women in the office chuckle when she walked by,
like her hips had hinges and never rotated.
“Yeah, Alison.” He waved her away
with one hand, the other still lightly slapping the grey office phone against his
now red brow.
“On a scale of menial chores to
sleeping on the house how bad did you screw up this time?” She persisted,
taking a seat at one of the chairs in front of the desk. She crossed her legs
and leaned forward in some anatomical anomaly.
“Sabrina’s dance recital is sold
out.” Mr. Carmichael breathed heavily as he returned the receiver to the grey
machine with a satisfying click.
“How did they run out?”
Mr. Carmichael let his leather chair
recline, his head bobbing into a line of sunlight clipping through the
downturned blinds. He kicked his shoes
off, letting them slap against the wooden inside of his desk. “Apparently one
mother is having everyone she knows within one hundred miles attend. They
bought over two hundred tickets and they just sold out last week.” He bounced
back harder in the chair until it toppled over.
“That bitch.”
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