Jeez! This is why I don't like doing "Skis"; Polanski, Krasinski, Romakowski, or "Anyotherskis." You know, guys of Polish decent? The fuckers spooge like lawn sprinklers when they pop. I scoop the last gobs Gribonowski's baby gravy out of my cleavage and thank Gods Unseen that I have the experience to efficiently manage such a messy exchange. He's pulled up his slacks and has his shirt tucked in and jacket on before I can even look up. He's rushing like there's a chance we can be caught. I almost chuckle out loud. Another boon of experience is that you never show any kind of unsaid mirth in the act; whether on a date or a trade. Men's egos are just simple electrons orbiting the nucleus that is their dick. Laughter of any kind is the fission needed to turn your Kock Kredit encounter into a nuclear holocaust.
He's being an asshole of course. There is no way we're going to get caught or happened upon. He acts like he doesn't show up at my cubicle every third month or so for the exact same exchange we've done from the time before. It
is
fun listening to him coming up with new ways of asking. Why is it funny? Because, what he's asking for is, technically, a transaction. All he needs is a transferrable account with a multi-compatible kreditor we share on the same network. If those are in play, then the only thing he needs to do is make a request for said act. And if it's within my desired skilled set, then all we need is privacy. And it doesn't get any more private than a utility closet
in
a stairwell.
I sit there on my heels struggling to get my boobs back into my front-clasp bra. Its special made, and worth every penny. It wasn't that hard to shop for bras before my children were born. But after...? God, I might as well have been a deep sea treasure hunter for all the difficulty in finding the correct size brassieres. My breasts went from C cups to Ds for my second child, and from Ds to double Ds for my third. And only Nature knows why, but for some reason, my thighs and ass saw the need to link up metaphorical arms with my boobs to follow the "Let's Gain Mass Together Road."
It was a trial getting used to them during pregnancy and afterward. I knocked over a lot of stuff. Eating was the worse. It was like there was a tractor beam for food and drink emanating from them. If it wasn't falling into my cleavage, I was dunking them in my mashed potatoes. Sometime I had to wonder why I even bothered with wearing a bra. The bra I have on now is one of five of the special makes. But I only wear those Thursdays and Fridays; the prime days guys are liable to spend Kred. The designs, of course, are made by Kreditor affiliates who deal in fashion. They recognized the market for having such things. And it turns out dealers who are female, which is
lot
, happen to be commonly my size.
Grobski, as his bros call him, is trying to escape without paying. I catch him by the wrist and he freezes like a rabbit. I roll my eyes up to his guilt-laden face, and raise an eyebrow.
"Kay that was great as always, but I have a ten a.m. meeting. Soooo, I'll see you around..."
That was lame even for a guy in his late forties. I raise my other eyebrow and tap his wrist with the index finger that has my Kred ring on it. He stares back for a second, then huffs out audibly.
"Fine. But you're going to feel bad about this later." He says accusingly.
"Oh yeah, I'm sure. I'll see your face in my daydreams when I'm at my desk and tear up uncontrollably." I say duplicitously, as he touches his ring to mine.
After the rings do their color changing to indicate the transfer is good, Grobski's on his way out, he looks back at me as I slip into my wrap around dress and re-cross it over my cleavage. "Kay, thanks, really. Kim's been such a pill this last year and half. I just—"
"Grobonowski," I say his full last name to get his attention and to indicate that there will be no familiarity coming from my end of this conversation. I may help alleviate his pent up sexual regressions but that does
not
mean I am on his side or that I have to listen to why he does what he does. Besides I'm a wife. If my husband were doing something like trading in Kred without telling me, I'd be furious.
"Don't tell me about your wife. I will not sympathize with you. You had a need, and I helped you with it. End of story. Back to life. Your meeting; remember?" I say all this as I gather up the used wet wipes and open my compact to check for random "shrapnel" that might have escaped the tissue I used to cap his "spitting-snake" when it went off.
Grobonowski wisely doesn't say another word. He nods and exits the utility closet we are in that is located two floors below his office and three floors above my cubicle. The good thing about doing deals in utility closets is that it's always easy to find a trash bag, waste receptacle, or trash bin. I tossed the trash we made and gather my things. Exiting the utility isn't the big deal; it would be if the closet was inside the office suite, but this one is in the stairwell. So once I'm sure Grobonowski's gone, I make my way back to my cubicle.
I'm not three seconds in my seat when my manager comes by to drop a few reports.
"Sharon!" I say as if I'm happy to see her. I'm not. We're not even frienemies. And we will never be anything more. She thinks I sold her out to K-hunters. Those guys only go after people who have defaulted on payment or a deal. So when one of the hunters came to the job asking after Sharon, I immediately put out an All Administrative Assistants' Alert text that a "Pussy Pirate" was on the premises. It's a really cute app that I received from my Kreditors' company for my first five years of debt free membership. It is an erect penis that is the pole with a black flag flapping in the breeze at the top. On the flag is a tiny beaver with Xs for eyes and a sword standing in its little chest. The alert app also has a special vibration in case it's muted. I'm very proud to report that it's given several women in our department a headstart when their hunters have closed in on them.
Some women are like ninjas. One second they are there, but when that alert goes off, they are gone. Other women sound like stampeding rhinos when they are making their getaway; and may the Fates be kind if you're in their path. Sharon was neither of those. It's not my fault she came out of the restroom just as the hunter-guy was passing by. Poor Sharon, you could hear her in the restroom, through the Scream-proof towel the hunters carry, fifty feet from the door. From what I heard at the water cooler, it had been a No-Lube execution. I also heard the poor thing didn't sit in her office chair for a week. Since then I've been on her Toss Pot radar.
"Kay." She responds with no emotion. "Here are those quarterlies from corporate A, B, & C. They're due Monday." She says setting them down on my desk with an icy countenance that's sure to draw penguins.
"Monday, huh? Well, that's no good. I'm not working late. My son has that thing, I'm chaperoning. You remember? I put in the request a week ago. Besides, Pam can take them. She's on this weekend." I say to her, adding on a sweet smile.
Sharon wants to say something but all she can do is turn red in the face. It's killing her that I have an In with our boss. He would have been her next move, trying to insinuate to him that I didn't have a "team attitude." But he deals in Kred from time to time. And guess who he comes to for quality Handy-Jays? Without another word, she turns on her heel and marches away...without the paperwork she just placed on my desk. It's a petty shot, but I let her have it.
