S is for Sardonic (aka the Nudist Rock Band Story)

September 11, 2013 by ladyharvey 3 Comments

This installment of Alphabet Soup is inspired by the Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge: Backward. You can check it out here: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/09/writing-challenge-backward/.

Please be aware there’s a lot of cussing in this story. If that’s not your thing this is not the story for you.

S is for Sardonic (aka the Nudist Rock Band Story)

Sardonic as defined by Merriam Webster: disdainfully or skeptically humorous : derisively mocking

So there she was by the Damen Blue Line stop, standing under her Louis Vuitton umbrella, in the rain, waiting for a cab. Melrose decided to join her cokehead brother’s nudist rock band. He said she had great tits. A cab went by without stopping and splashed her Jimmy Choo’s. Ruination. It was the end of a not good day.

Melrose woke up to pinpricks of blood on her right forearm. Staring at them she turned to find Ginger staring back. The tabby was called Ginger because he was ginger. It occurred to her that his name was the reason he hated her. Turning the other way she realized it wasn’t the name at all.

It was 11:00 am. “Shit.”

Work had started two hours ago. Ginger wanted breakfast at least three hours ago. “Shit.”

Flinging back white sheets she rushed to the closet. The closet greeted her with empty hangers and piles of laundry. Her choices were a black pencil skirt, gray pants that needed hemmed, a selection of neutral cotton t-shirts, pajama pants, and the hot pink off shoulder silk blouse from her mother that two years later was unworn.

She caught herself in the mirror while rummaging for deodorant. The blouse was several sizes too big, the skirt stained, her hair was already refusing to be in a bun. Wrinkling her nose she sighed to Ginger “Why can’t you do laundry, buy deodorant, or fix my hair?”. . . “Shit Ginger”.

Finally having fed Ginger she spent twenty minutes looking for her keys. They were in her purse. Departing the apartment building she stepped onto the sidewalk and her toes got chilled. “Shit, shit, shit.” She had no shoes on.

Running into the apartment she saw her snakeskin Choo’s. In college she promised herself that when she got her first real job she would buy herself a pair of Choo’s. She had missed rent to buy them. They had sat unworn on the mantel for four years. Hesitating for a moment she put them on, adjusted to her new found height, and smiled.

She got to work at 12:30pm, having texted Mr. Winston that she’d had a family emergency. No need to tell him the emergency was staying up too late with Crofton again. Again.

Crofton was tall with manicured nails and piercing gray eyes. He was a lawyer. He wore black patent leather shoes even at the weekend. He read the Wallstreet Journal over black coffee. He took Melrose out for cocktails. He ate her for after cocktails dessert, second dessert, and sometimes third dessert every Tuesday and Thursday. He, however, always managed to make it to work on time in a pressed pinstripe suit and polished shoes.

Melrose arrived to her secretary’s desk at the design firm late every single damn time since the arrival of Crofton. Laundry never got done, cleaning was nonexistent, Ginger frequently attacked her, and now she was wearing a hot pink blouse and snakeskin Choo’s.

Lydia, the firms lead designer, exclaimed upon seeing Melrose “Darling, you look simply marvelous, those shoes, those SHOES!”

“It was clean” replied Melrose.

“Well you should wear clean more often” Lydia intoned. “It suits you, it suits you.” Nodding sharply she disappeared into her office.

An hour later Melrose discovered a pounding headache. She had been working on the general inbox and could not figure out how to reply to emails. The keys didn’t type what she told them, the spell check was being odd, the send button was nowhere to be found. “Shit”

Getting up, and stepping carefully down the hall towards coffee, her phone beeped. There were two texts.

The first was from Crofton: “Lunch? You were delicious last night. I love your tits”.

The second was from her brother Marky: “Mel I’m starting a nudist rock band. We need some great tits, you have great tits. You in?”

She stared at the phone for a good five minutes flicking between each text, pursing her lips.

To Crofton: “Can’t do lunch, was late. Cocktails after would be great!”

To Marky: “WTF?”

At 2, after five cups of coffee, she had finally finished emails. Leaning back, kicking her heels off, she recalled last night. Mr Winston found her, eyes shut.

“Melrose” he yelled.

“What?” she sat straight up.

“You can’t keep doing this. You cannot be late again. I’ll fire you next time. We need you here in the morning to field east coast calls. And you can’t sleep on the job. I don’t know what your “family emergency” is this time, but your family better stop having goddamn emergencies. You hear?” he handed her a piece of paper and left.

The paper was a written warning that she promptly shredded. She texted Crofton: “I’m leaving early when do you want to do cocktails?”

Crofton’s office was two blocks away, yet he insisted on cocktails at a bar off the Blue Line. That meant a train and a walk. After getting off at the wrong stop and twenty minutes of acquiring blisters later she found him.

Crofton raised an eyebrow as she sat down. He was immaculate as always and had even added a cream pocket handkerchief for an extra dash of lawyer. He looked up from the London Times. “I went ahead and ordered you a Lemon Drop Martini.”

“A Lemon Drop Martini?” she wheezed, plopping into the chair.

“Yes it’s your favorite” he gave her his lopsided smile and went back to the Times.

“No it’s not. I‘m allergic to lemons. My favorite is Cranberry.”

“Oh” he adjusted his titanium reading glasses. “I thought that was Lydia.”

“Lydia?” Melrose’s voice rose several notches.

“Yes Lydia Wallace, you know her. We’re married.” He peered over the glasses, page ready to turn.

“You’re married to Lydia Wallace” several degrees higher still. Melrose took a swig of martini and grimaced.

“Yes always have been I am Crofton Wallace after all. We have an open relationship.” He crossed his arms and sat back.

“You’re married to Lydia Wallace and you have an open relationship” Melrose squeaked the words slowly and downed the whole martini.

“I thought you were allergic to lemons?” Crofton raised both eyebrows.

“I don’t give a fuck” Melrose squawked. “What am I then? Am I your mistress, a fling, just some tart you do in your spare time when Lydia’s at work. Who you the fuck do you think you are?”

“Crofton Wallace, attorney. A sex addict in an open relationship with a very understanding woman. I told you, you have great tits. I love fucking them.” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin.

Melrose turned several shades of pink. She picked up his whiskey on the rocks and poured it onto the London Times. She walked shakily out.

On the way to the Blue Line she called Mr. Winston and got voicemail: “I quit. I thought I was dating this guy and we had something and he just wants me for my tits and he’s Lydia’s husband. But they have an “open relationship” whatever the fuck that means. And I just can’t face Lydia knowing all the fucking I’ve been doing to her husband. So I quit.”

Arriving at the correct Blue Line station she learned it was closed for construction. Then it started to pour.