Marital Bitch(65)

And I realize that I’m being overly dramatic.

I wish I could blame pregnancy hormones… but I can’t.

So, it’s Tuesday and I’m in my office. It’s been over a week since the test came back negative and with every passing day my mood has worsened. The Toad has been making subtle comments all day.

You seem distracted, Colleen.

Your work is slipping.

Are you even listening to me?

It wasn’t even 10 a.m. when The Toad made a sly comment about how many cups of coffee I’ve drank today. The number, then, was up to 4. So sue me. I’m going to enjoy one of the few perks of not being knocked up—caffeine—lots and lots of caffeine.

It was noon when I stopped for lunch—turkey sandwich on white with pickles, onions, banana peppers, and Swiss cheese. Normally I hate banana peppers. But today, those juicy little things called to me. In the break room there were some snacks—cookies, brownies, and pastries. I only made two trips: two cookies, two brownies, and an apple fritter. I’m a glutton for sweets and I eat when I’m depressed. The Toad asked me if there was something I’d like to tell him. It took all my strength not to tell him he’s a sleaze.

It was a little after 2:00 p.m. when we were in an all-hands meeting and The Toad kept giving me curious glances across the table. At one point he even had the nerve to ask me for a bite of the cookie I was munching on. I politely told him I was sick and proceeded to cough on the cookie. I wouldn’t have shared that cookie with Jesus Christ himself let alone The Toad.

There’s a knock at my office door. Before I have the opportunity to acquiesce to the intrusion, the door flies open. It’s The Toad. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, looking rather shy. I know better. He’s a snake.

“Thomas,” I say, smiling, and gesture to a chair in front of my desk. He nods and walks in, closing the door behind him. The Toad takes the seat I’ve offered him and he leans back in his seat, making himself at home. I really wish he wouldn’t do that. He has no right to feel so comfortable in my office when I’m so uncomfortable with him being in here.

When he says nothing, I blow out a breath and decide it’s going to be up to me to get things rolling. “So, what can I help you with?”

“Colleen,” The Toad begins, “Is there something you need to tell me?” I stare at him blankly. Several things come to mind: you’re a pig, I hate you, die in a fire… but none are things I can vocalize. I raise my eyebrows, asking for clarification. “I just mean,” he stutters, “You’re eating a lot—a lot” he emphasizes.

I narrow my eyes and slap my hands down on my desk. “What are you trying to say, Nate?” My temper has left me and so have my senses. I disregard the fact that he is my boss. I disregard the fact that I spent over three years in law school. I disregard my student loan debt, and the economy. If I lose this job, I can say hello to bankruptcy, because finding another one would be impossible. The trouble is that I just don’t give a flying fuck anymore.

He fumbles over his words. He fidgets. He opens his mouth repeatedly; but no words come out. Thomas Nate is stuck at the bottom of a well and it’s apparent that he knows if he speaks one wrong word, I’m going to drown him alive. So I throw him a bone.

“Spit it out, please. It’s nearly time for second lunch!” I snap, revealing myself as a closet “Lord of the Rings” nerd. The Toad looks unfazed. I should have known he was too lame to appreciate all that which Tolkien can offer. Idiot.

“ARE YOU PREGNANT?!?” he shouts, eyes darting around the room—looking anywhere but at my face—and a nervous sheen appearing on his forehead. Score one point for Angry Colleen.

“WHY!” I shout back, my blood boiling. He continues to squirm.

“I’m sorry,” he pleads, but I’m not having it.

“No, no. Don’t be sorry, Nate. I understand,” I nod my head, my voice ice cold. His eyes widen in what appears to be fear. Inside, I giggle maniacally. Good. “I get it. A woman can’t have a healthy appetite because either she’s a pig or she’s with child.”

“That is not what I meant!” he defends himself weakly.

“Sure, sure,” I say, wanting to throttle him. My arms twitch and the papers on my desk fly around the office. I stand up and lean over my desk.

“What do you want to hear, Nate? That I’m depressed? How about I tell you I’m a pig? How about I tell you that I just like cookies?” My arms twitch again and more papers fly around. And again. My desk is now cleared of every last loose paper. “How about I tell you that I can’t stand you?”