Tidbit: Untitled Story


There’s something off-kilter about this tidbit and I want you to tell me what you think it is.
It’s a different story to Looking Through, set in modern day Earth, so I’m writing it differently. Please help?


“Branson wants to see you.”
Scent of cheap perfume, expensive hair products, cherry blossom hand cream and the faintest whiff of sweat. Rosienne’s smell overpowers the avocado in my sandwich and begins to kill my appetite. The sun-dried tomato still smells strong, though. I think I consider that a blessing, and eye my lunch hungrily before glancing up at my boss’ impatient-looking secretary. She’s your stereotypical middle-aged supervisor, all severe clothes and strict hairstyles, with a fondness for power trips and sarcastic comments.
Today, though, she seems stressed and she forgets her snide comments in favour of pleasing her boss. My boss. Michael Branson, editor in chief of The Marquis newspaper. He’s a monster when in a temper, frightening even to Rosienne the almighty bitch secretary. I have a feeling today is one of those days.
She glares down at me over her nose, impatiently awaiting my response. I wonder absently if she’s had rhinoplasty.

“Okay,” It’s tempting to have another bite of my sandwich. It smells delicious, and I wasn’t even half way into it before this rude interruption. Subtle changes in Rosienne’s posture indicate to me that if I dare take another bite, she’ll bring hell down around my ears. “I’m at lunch at the moment, I’ll see him when I go back up?” Hopefully that’ll placate her. I can almost hear the seductive coax of the sandwich. It wants me to eat it, I’m certain, and my stomach burbles gently in agreement.

“He wants to see you now.” No such luck. Her voice drips with venom, making it clear that even if I were saving a baby dangling from a highrise, Branson’s requests come first. My stomach drops with the sandwich as I lower to rest on the table, the grease paper wrapping crinkling pleasantly around my fingers. Not going to see Branson could lose me my job, and even this sandwich isn’t worth that.

I sigh and sit back in my chair. “Alright, Rosienne. Tell him I’m on my way up.”

Rosienne makes a satisfied huffing sound and spins on her heel, clack-clack-clacking away from the cafeteria in her cheap pumps. I give my sandwich one last look of longing, before standing to follow her, dropping the delicious-smelling bundle in the bin by the door. My stomach gurgles in despair.


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