Express Mail

I recently found this story while cleaning up my hard drive (pun intended) and figured it would fit nicely on this site. And, as always, my truly engaging stories are completely fictitious. If I were to write one based on real life it would involve the grocery store, doing laundry, or having a colonoscopy. Enjoy.)

Another Monday morning. I hate Mondays. Weekends are never long enough, and I usually spend mine catching up on sleep, running errands, or doing chores around the house, leaving me very little time for personal enjoyment. Or fun. Or a life.

I finally decided to “make time” for myself whilst in the bathtub last night and, wouldn’t you know it, my alleged waterproof vibrator turned out not to be as advertised. At least I didn’t electrocute myself. I’m not sure if that can occur with a battery-operated “appliance” since all anyone ever hears about in this respect are toasters or hair dryers. Actually, it would be my luck to be the one woman on the evening news who they will say committed suicide with a “bath time waterproof thrusting jack rabbit.” $105 down the drain. Literally.

The combination of pent-up sexual tension, lack of sleep, and, well, Monday has me in a rather foul mood, and I certainly am not looking forward to another day of tedium. I have a meeting at nine with my bitch boss that will probably last until lunch because she has the amazing ability to talk about absolutely nothing for hours with her horrendous grammar and fabricated words to make herself seem smart and competent, which, of course, she isn’t. How she got promoted, I can only venture to guess it had to do with knee pads. After lunch I have a report to finish, some phone calls to return, and, hopefully, I will get out of here on time.

I had no sooner gotten into my office, placed my things away, and made myself comfortable at my desk when my phone rang. It was Ken from the mail room informing me I had a large package waiting and would I please come and get it. Why the hell doesn’t he bring it to me, I thought, annoyed, as I walked down the corridor to the elevator.

A long ride down to the second floor in a cramped elevator with people who had no concept of personal hygiene did nothing to improve my spirits.

When I got to the mail room, it appeared to be empty. I knocked on the slightly ajar door, “Hello? Ken?” Nothing. I walked inside and perused the area. The lights were on, but nobody was home. I laughed. That’s how I view most people. “This isn’t funny. I’m busy,” I announced. Still nothing. “Okay, then. I’m leaving. Thanks for wasting my time, Ken,” I said, turning toward the door.

And then I saw Ken. He was standing by the door, smiling, completely naked, and obviously happy to see me. He closed and locked the door.

“What the fuck?” I asked.

“Exactly,” he replied.

Thirty minutes later I returned to my office, clothes slightly wrinkled, hair a bit mussed, but with a smile and a much lower blood pressure.

He’s taking me out for dinner tonight.

“Learning music by reading about it is like making love by mail.” ~ Luciano Pavarotti

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