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.
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? I owe her.
What the heck, I thought, it’s just a film and a quick drink, and that will be the end of it.
The outfit she wore was frightening; an embroidered black dress all the way down to the floor, with a little train in tow. Thick black scarf, just as long. Black gloves. Monsters Ball.
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. This wasn’t the girl from the office. Horrid. But bearable. It will be over soon.
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. 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…”
It will require both feet. And the entire farm.
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