Martina was definitely not the prettiest of my colleagues, she wasn’t pretty at all, but she had ‘three’ big hearts and was nice to me all week.
Settling into the new job would have been difficult without her, so I sure as hell owed her one.
I’ve been dying to see this movie, and mentioned it yesterday afternoon in the canteen, but not to her. Unfortunately, news travels fast when you’re working in a firm with only 22 employees.
Anne Rice is her favourite author, and this one happens to be her favourite story, supposedly. How can I possibly refuse her request to tag along after all she’s done for me this week!
What the heck, I thought, it’s just a film and a quick drink, and that will be the end of it. Wrong.
The outfit she wore was frightening, a black embroidered dress draped all the way down to her feet, spread over her black Moccasins like a restless mummie. Thick black scarf, just as long, and the black gloves resting on her lap reminded more of a cleaning lady’s tools than a fashion accessory. I told her she looked nice; what else could I do! Women don’t want the truth.
Our dealings thus far were strictly professional, she was a workmate, whom I felt no attraction for but certainly respected. Now I hated everything about her, the love-struck face, the jet black hair, the false eyelashes. Dark shadows. Gothic surround. Boisterous. This wasn’t the girl from the office.
Horrid, but bearable. It will be over soon. Wrong.
Above the three big hearts – my sole reprieve – the speech organ spouted continuously, pausing only for a smile, a laugh and a feeding of popcorn. On, and on. And on. Martina hasn’t stopped talking since we arrived. Or before. Unbearable. It won’t be over soon.
It will probably take my foot, a sheep and a cow to finally shut her up, so I can finally watch, and listen, to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise seducing those nice girls on the plantation for sex and a glass of blood!
“You’re going to love this part, though, Anne Rice wouldn’t. In the book…”
Wrong. It will take both feet and the whole farm.