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I know I’m flushing because now I’m thinking about

how we hardly got out of bed. I don’t want it to show on my

face, because that’s not the right frame of mind to go into my

boss’ office with. I should be prepared. I should be somber. I

shouldn’t be thinking about how perfect Steph is, how I feel

like a brand-new person, how I feel like I’ve never felt before.

I feel better than good. Better than amazing. Better than

fabulous. I haven’t come down from that natural high, that’s

for sure.

I probably still have this sex-tossed look about me,

even though I know my hair is combed into a perfect, tidy bun.

I’m likely glowing. I feel like a freaking flashlight or

something.

My boss’ door is open and I enter with a knock,

determined to meet my fate.

When I sit down, instead of glaring at me, frowning, or

giving me other negative signals, the guy actually has a smile

for me. He looks happy to see me, which makes me confused.

Unless he really hates me that much and he’s looking for to

firing me. Then maybe that warm, welcoming smile makes

sense. Maybe I’m about to make his morning. Maybe he

thinks firing someone with a frown will cause tears and

protests. Maybe he just wants to deliver the news and shoo me

out the door.

I slip into one of the ancient old waiting room style

chairs in front of the huge metal desk. Why does everything in

this place look like it came from the eighties? Right. It was

probably here when they bought the place and since most of

the stuff was probably put in here before walls were sealed up,

it’s not going to be able to come out. That desk looks at least