anything? No. You never give me the opportunity. Why bother giving me the authority to make decisions? You waltz into the meeting and override all the decisions I have made.
It has taken me weeks and weeks of work to put those systems into place. You didn't even have the courtesy to discuss this with me.
The decision I made on the Pritchard file was based on hours of negotiation and common sense, not to mention profitability.
How dare you humiliate me and undermine me so publicly! You make me look like a fool. I hate it when you do that. The money that we will lose! I could have slapped you.
But of course, I didn't.
I pull up the car with a jolt. Keys won't come out of the ignition. Everything falls out of my handbag. Freezing cold. House will be like an iceberg. It's so late. I had to stay back and reverse all the paperwork. So much for being efficient. I get out of the car. You were sitting on the doorstep. “Get out of my face, you bastard.”
You had this big black overcoat on with the collar turned up. Your lips are blue. You are standing between the door and me. You say nothing. Then you take something out of your pocket. I can't see what it is. It is so dark and it blends in with the black leather gloves you are wearing.
It squeaks. You hold it up to my face. Your blue lips smiling.
It is a tiny black kitten, with a little gold ribbon around its neck. It shivers. “Meow.” Big eyes. Big green eyes. Little pink tongue. Little meow.
“I don't know what you want to call him, but I've been calling him Pritchard.”
I hate it when you do this. I'm torn with indecision. I long to fold myself inside your overcoat, where it is warm and safe.
I looked up. Grace was gone. I could hear an awful screeching noise, like cats fighting, and laughter—nasty laughter.
I threw the paper back into the box and ran out to the veranda. Grace was standing at the end of the veranda with her hands on the railing, swaying from foot to foot.
The laughter was coming from the lime nightie womannext door, although she wasn't in the lime nightie now. She was standing on her veranda. She was doubled over, holding her belly, laughing. Shouter had Prickles. He was standing in the middle of the lawn facing Grace. He had Prickles and was throwing him in the air above his head and catching him by the stomach. He's sneering, “Hey, Nuffy. I gotcher caaat.”
Heave
.
Prickles flies up into the air and lets out a long screech. His fur is all standing up. Screamer is laughing uncontrollably. Prickles is writhing in the air, turning himself around in the air. Shouter catches Prickles on the way down again.
“Hey, Nuffy, I gotcher caaat.”
I run out on the veranda. I bellow, “Put the cat down!” When I get angry I bellow, not a high squeak like a lot of people but a deep bellow from way down in the bottom of my guts. I take a deep breath and it comes out loud and low like a foghorn.
Prickles is on the way up again, but Shouter doesn't try to catch him this time, he looks at me, still sneering. He pulls his foot back and watches the cat writhing in the air before him, aims and lays a boot into the cat at about waist height.
When the boot hits him, Prickles' legs wrap around Shouter's foot for a moment and then he rebounds off. He moans as he sails through the air and falls in a heap on our front lawn. He rolls over slowly and lets out a long wail.
I'm running down the steps. I'm running across the lawn. I can hear the screen door shut behind them as they go back into the house, but I'm looking at Prickles. He isn't moving.
Grace is standing on the veranda. She is swaying rapidlyfrom foot to foot. She has her hands up to her temples and she's making a short breathy sound, “Eeeh, eeeh, eeh.”
I run over to where Prickles is lying on the lawn. His tail flicks once. Tears are running down my cheeks. He looks up at me groggily and then his little green eyes close.
Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.
I'm grunting. I'm kneeling down on the ground
It has taken me weeks and weeks of work to put those systems into place. You didn't even have the courtesy to discuss this with me.
The decision I made on the Pritchard file was based on hours of negotiation and common sense, not to mention profitability.
How dare you humiliate me and undermine me so publicly! You make me look like a fool. I hate it when you do that. The money that we will lose! I could have slapped you.
But of course, I didn't.
I pull up the car with a jolt. Keys won't come out of the ignition. Everything falls out of my handbag. Freezing cold. House will be like an iceberg. It's so late. I had to stay back and reverse all the paperwork. So much for being efficient. I get out of the car. You were sitting on the doorstep. “Get out of my face, you bastard.”
You had this big black overcoat on with the collar turned up. Your lips are blue. You are standing between the door and me. You say nothing. Then you take something out of your pocket. I can't see what it is. It is so dark and it blends in with the black leather gloves you are wearing.
It squeaks. You hold it up to my face. Your blue lips smiling.
It is a tiny black kitten, with a little gold ribbon around its neck. It shivers. “Meow.” Big eyes. Big green eyes. Little pink tongue. Little meow.
“I don't know what you want to call him, but I've been calling him Pritchard.”
I hate it when you do this. I'm torn with indecision. I long to fold myself inside your overcoat, where it is warm and safe.
I looked up. Grace was gone. I could hear an awful screeching noise, like cats fighting, and laughter—nasty laughter.
I threw the paper back into the box and ran out to the veranda. Grace was standing at the end of the veranda with her hands on the railing, swaying from foot to foot.
The laughter was coming from the lime nightie womannext door, although she wasn't in the lime nightie now. She was standing on her veranda. She was doubled over, holding her belly, laughing. Shouter had Prickles. He was standing in the middle of the lawn facing Grace. He had Prickles and was throwing him in the air above his head and catching him by the stomach. He's sneering, “Hey, Nuffy. I gotcher caaat.”
Heave
.
Prickles flies up into the air and lets out a long screech. His fur is all standing up. Screamer is laughing uncontrollably. Prickles is writhing in the air, turning himself around in the air. Shouter catches Prickles on the way down again.
“Hey, Nuffy, I gotcher caaat.”
I run out on the veranda. I bellow, “Put the cat down!” When I get angry I bellow, not a high squeak like a lot of people but a deep bellow from way down in the bottom of my guts. I take a deep breath and it comes out loud and low like a foghorn.
Prickles is on the way up again, but Shouter doesn't try to catch him this time, he looks at me, still sneering. He pulls his foot back and watches the cat writhing in the air before him, aims and lays a boot into the cat at about waist height.
When the boot hits him, Prickles' legs wrap around Shouter's foot for a moment and then he rebounds off. He moans as he sails through the air and falls in a heap on our front lawn. He rolls over slowly and lets out a long wail.
I'm running down the steps. I'm running across the lawn. I can hear the screen door shut behind them as they go back into the house, but I'm looking at Prickles. He isn't moving.
Grace is standing on the veranda. She is swaying rapidlyfrom foot to foot. She has her hands up to her temples and she's making a short breathy sound, “Eeeh, eeeh, eeh.”
I run over to where Prickles is lying on the lawn. His tail flicks once. Tears are running down my cheeks. He looks up at me groggily and then his little green eyes close.
Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.
I'm grunting. I'm kneeling down on the ground
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