All of my writing is fiction, and the stories and characters are products of my imagination. They were created for my fun and, hopefully, your enjoyment. Some of the events in the stories are not particularly condoned nor encouraged by the author but are there to create and enhance the story of the imaginary characters and their lives. Comments are always encouraged and carefully reviewed. All characters within the story that need to be are 18 years of age or older. I hope you enjoy! And take a second to vote and comment.
This one is a little different for me, and I'm interested in how it's accepted and what readers think of it.
*****
"So, what's going on in the mysterious world of the engineering lab?" Aimee asked just before taking a large bite of her chicken sandwich, the special sauce oozing out between her lips and dripping from her chin.
I shoved a napkin across the table. "We're creating a chicken sandwich that doesn't drip," I said, grinning and shaking my head.
"Smart ass," Aimee quipped, wiping her chin and then the table. "Stupid machine sandwiches."
"The key is the microwave setting."
Aimee swallowed her mouthful. "Mom worked here for forty years and talks about the cafeteria with freshly cooked food every day." She grimaced as she eyed her sandwich. "And the cafeteria was twice this size."
"Yes, what's the world coming to?"
"It's true. Even though this thing doesn't taste too bad, who knows how long ago it was made and what it's made of."
"You could always quit here and look for a company with a cafeteria that has freshly cooked meals."
"If I did that, you wouldn't have
any
friends here."
"Lots of truth in that," I said with a chuckle, realizing I wasn't the most popular person in this part of the company.
"Except for Bo, of course."
"Wash your mouth out with lye soap," I fairly spat out.
"Gotcha," Aimee gloated.
Bo was my anathema. Our sales manager, it appeared that he couldn't care less about engineering, or safety, or reliability. He simply wanted products to be available two weeks before the deadline. I could never convince him that those other three things were the key to making the product popular and to maintain our clientele. I knew he was under pressure to produce sales results so our division could stay in business.
I'd often tell him I didn't want to have one of my projects appear on that Science Channel show, "Engineering Catastrophes." It bothered me that he never sought me out to hear my side. I was always the pain-in-the-ass engineer that was delaying everything.
"You got me for sure. That comment was like a knife to the gut."
"You're sitting here watching me eat. Aren't you getting some lunch?"
"I'm skipping lunch for a while to lose a few pounds."
"Are you kidding me, Lis? If I had a body like yours, I'd, well. I'd have a boyfriend and three others chasing me."
I just shook my head. With working late and weekends, I was missing gym time, and my running had nearly disappeared. Consequently, I'd gained four or five pounds. I'm five-seven with an athletic build. That's slender-athletic rather than body-builder athletic, and extra pounds migrate to my belly. So, when I gain a few, it's immediately obvious.
To get rid of the extra, I usually just ran a few more miles or spent an extra half hour at the gym, and the belly bulge would disappear. With my current workload, my usual plan wasn't going to work.
"My body must not be
that
good since I don't have a boyfriend, let alone three others chasing me."
"That's your own fault. You work too much and are way too fussy when it comes to men. And, before I forget it, don't skip meals; just count calories."
"That sounds like work."
"A little, but you're a numbers person. When the hub wants to lose ten pounds, he counts calories for two weeks, and it's gone."
"Aimee, it can't be that simple."
"I don't know, but that's what he does. I need to get back to work, and you need to grab one of those chicken sandwiches. See ya, Lis."
Aimee was off, and I was staring at the vending machine. I was hungry...and I had money in my pocket, which was unusual. I stuffed the money in the machine, nuked the sandwich, and hurried back to my office. Aimee was right; the chicken wasn't bad at all.
*****
My cell phone buzzed a little after four, a convenient time since I was between reviewing a couple of drawings and overseeing a life test being started.
"Wow, you picked up." my sister Marisa said before I had a chance to say hello.
"Good timing."
"Listen, I'm making Gramma's beef roast recipe tonight. Why don't you stop by and help us eat it?"
"Ugh. I'd like to, but I've been working late on this new product and..."
"It's Brian's birthday."
Marisa always had a way of finalizing things when I was reluctant to do what she wanted. She was six years older than me and had married Brian just before he was drafted into the NBA. She never shared how many millions he'd made in the six years he played, but I'm sure it was getting close to triple-figure millions. He'd started a real estate business after he'd hurt his knee again and had his third surgery. Who didn't enjoy buying a house or a business from a good-looking six-foot-nine former pro basketball player who most had seen on TV at one point or another?
"Don't tell him I forgot all about his birthday." Stupid job. If they didn't pay me so well, I might look for something else.
"I kinda figured. So, you'll be here?"
"Not that you and Brian aren't good company, but Gramma's beef roast?"
"Figured that too. How's six-thirty fit into your overwhelming schedule?"
It didn't fit at all, but I was going to make it fit. All work and no play make Lisbet a dull girl. And that did fit.
"I'll be there."
Technically, my work day was eight to five with an hour for lunch, kind of old-fashioned, but it fit well with the owner, who was seventy-four, but still working part-time to kind of oversee things. Senility seemed to be taking him over, so we ignored many of his suggestions as he usually didn't remember making them. I was often still at work at seven-thirty, but tonight would be different.
I left at five sharp, sort of sneaking out, and stopped at Barnes and Noble on the way home. I knew Marisa had been after Brian to read a little more since he had lots of leisure time, so I decided a book might be in order. I wanted fiction because I knew that would be a change of pace for him, but I hoped it could still be about sports since I didn't want to push him too far afield from his regular pursuits.
I checked with one of the clerks, and she guided me to
This Was Never About Basketball
by Craig Leener. Checking the jacket, I discovered it was about basketball, but much more as well, even some fantasy. Maybe I could broaden his experience even more than I'd first thought. I bought it.
At home, the home that Brian had purchased for me and allowed me to pay him back interest-free, I showered quickly and put on some presentable clothing. I didn't need to impress them, but once in a while, it was fun to clean up a little.
At twenty-five past the hour, I opened their front door. "I'm here," I called loudly.
"Holy shit!" Brian yelled. He was standing by the door. "I was going to leave the door open for you, but you scared the crap out of me."
Thank the gods, he was laughing. A two-hundred-and-seventy-pound giant can be frightening, even if he's your brother-in-law.
"Come in, sis. I think Brian is awake now."
"Awake?" I questioned as I stepped around Brian.
"Yeah. His buddies had a tee time of zero dark thirty this morning, and he was taking a recovery nap just before you got here."
I chuckled. "Your golf clubs are probably as long as I am."
He stepped back and looked at me from head to toe. "Pretty close."
After that, I received a warm bear hug from the big guy.
"Oh, and happy birthday," I continued, handing him the colorful sack that contained the book.
He checked it out and smiled. "Thanks, Lis. I'll read this one next." Turning toward the kitchen, he called, "Hey, Mars, Lis got me a book."
In just a second, Marisa appeared in the family room. "Let me see." She quickly had the book and checked the cover. "Good job, sis. I've been trying to get him to read more, and not on his computer or tablet or, heaven forbid, his phone."
"Are you like your sister?" he said to me. "Bossy, domineering, and stubborn as a bull ox."
"I admit to the first two," Marisa said with a chuckle, "but I won't be compared to an ox, thank you."
"If I could have hit two out of three when I was playing, I'd probably still be playing."
"Yeah, with two artificial legs, or at least, knees."
"It smells delicious in here," I said, changing the subject. And that was a severe understatement.
"It's about ready, too," Marisa said, pivoting and hurrying back toward the kitchen.
"Glad you could come," Brian said. "Your sister worries about you working so hard."
"Well, if you could find a rich basketball player for me to marry, I wouldn't have to do that."
"If you were serious about it, I probably could," Brian answered with a laugh. "You are one good-looking and very intelligent woman. It might be difficult to find a basketball player who could keep up with you."
I always blushed when Brian told me how good-looking I was, and I think he did it on purpose just to see my pink cheeks. Marissa always told me he was serious and never failed to mention it to her when I was around. Whatever.
