That didn’t sound ominous or anything. “What do you mean?” I asked warily.
Sandy glared at me. “It’s become painfully obvious that you can no longer handle your own affairs. So from this point on, I’m going to do everything for you. You’re going out with Vince.”
“Knock it off.”
“No. You had your chance to do this your way. It’s not working. You’re making things worse. Now I’m taking over.”
“Sandy, I mean it.”
“First order of business: What are you going to wear on your first date?”
“I will punch you in the balls, so help me God—”
“If he’s taking you somewhere nice, then you should wear those gray slacks that make your butt look hot.”
“By hot, you mean fat. Besides, I’m not going—”
“If it’s going to be someplace casual, then you could probably go with jeans and that leather jacket I bought you for Christmas that you never wear.”
“I wore it that one time at that thing we went to! Then someone asked what kind of motorcycle I rode and I told them I didn’t have one, but I’d always wanted a Vespa—”
“And then we’ll obviously need to figure out some kind of first-date etiquette. Do you hug him? Do you give him a rim job? Do you ride him? I don’t want you to be out of your comfort zone. Or seem like a whore.”
“Ride him? Did you smoke meth on your way back from lunch? You are out of your damn mind—”
“We’ll figure it out. Now, do you want me to RSVP with him for you, or are you going to tell him yes?”
“We’re through. I no longer want to be friends with you. My love for you has died like a dusty flower in the desert with no rain. I hate you.”
“I’ll give you until Wednesday.”
“Fuck you.”
“Until five o’clock on Wednesday. If you don’t do it, I’ll give him your phone number and tell him where you live.”
I looked at him, scandalized. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Bitch, please,” he said with a smirk. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Sandy, I’m warning you.”
“Oh, like I’m scared of you.”
“You should be,” I tried to say menacingly.
“That almost worked, but then I remembered how when we were eight, you cried because your mom wouldn’t buy you the My Little Pony that had the little jewel thing on its ass.”
I gasped. “Morning Star? He was so pretty.”
“I can’t believe there are male My Little Ponies. You, my friend, are a homo.”
“Says the drag queen.”
“Wednesday, Paul. Five o’clock.”
“I will fuck you up, Sandy.”
My work phone rang. “This is Paul.” Oh, crap. “Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson. Mrs. Jackson.”
Sandy smirked at me.
Balls.
I DECIDED that for the rest of the day, I would ignore Sandy completely and pretend that Vince didn’t exist. So, naturally, they were all I saw.
Word of Vince spread quickly through the small office, with all the little gossip whores whispering back and forth about how hot he was, and that rumor had it he was gay. I wanted to tell them of course he was gay, that no self-respecting man could look like him and not be gay, but that would mean acknowledging his existence, so I kept my mouth shut.
It didn’t help that every time I saw him he was surrounded by adoring fans who seemed to be fawning all over him already. It didn’t help that I couldn’t stop myself from scowling as Brittany Ward, the female office slut, kept giggling and pushing her grossly huge breasts against his arm like sexual harassment wasn’t a real problem in the American workplace. It didn’t help that I couldn’t stop myself from grinding my teeth when Tad Cook, the male office slut, kept giggling and finding some way to touch Vince on the arms, stroking his biceps. I figured it must come with having your name be something as pretentious as Tad, because, really? Who names their kid Tad?
But as much as I wished the ground would open up and swallow both of them whole into an underground river of lava, what made it worse was the fact that I even cared if the office sluts were trying to mark their territory. I pretended to ignore the grin on Vince’s face. For all I knew, maybe he was bisexual and he’d have both Brittany and Tad at the same time (which did nothing to help my overactive imagination, and I quickly had to curtail those thoughts because even though I hated their stupid faces, the idea was still kind of hot. Except for the part with the vagina).
So I spent the rest of Monday in alternating states of anger, jealousy, disdain, horniness, and awkwardness, so much so that by the time five o’clock hit, I was ready to spread myself out like a buffet for Vince or murder him and hide his body underneath the floorboards in my house.