Here's a chick lit scene I just now wrote - with a cliffhanger so stay tuned for next time! - after watching the chick flick entitled, The Accidental Husband, with Uma Thurman and Jeffrey Dean Morgan. I just love romance!
Okay so here's my new scene, as usual, with my heroine, the clueless QUIM (Quirky Uncontrollable Immature Middle-aged woman) Jacy Yates:
In CubicleLand today, I sit sipping my café mocha latte at my cubicle, trying hard not to let Gloria’s moanings and grumblings get to me.
My workload is full and everyone is in a flurry today. My boss is coming back from New York and I’ve got to get my project finished. I’m working while Gloria is talking.
I’m not sure how she gets her work done. I think she bribes her assistant to do all of it for her. Or maybe she bids out her jobs on eWorkHorse.com and they monkeyhump out her work and get ‘er done, just in time…silly as this sounds, it just could be what happens.
It’s a Monday. I look around the office and spy Wilder. I sigh.
He’s across the frazzled fray on such a manic Monday, talking to someone else who’s just as high up as he is. In Vice PresidentLand. Where the norm (and peons such as myself) do not hang. Nor dare. Nor speak. Not ever. Unless spoken to.
Gloria interrupts herself in mid-madhouse rumbling-rama sentence and looks over to where I am looking - at Wilder - and she sighs as well. The man is just so dreamy.
Wilder. He is a sizzling man with the perfect fitting name. A glistening pirate of hearts. He has dark brows, smoldering blue eyes, a tan that tomorrow never forgets.
He’s smarmy sexy frothy-flirty. He is heat intoxicated up and down my spine. His voice is velvet. He is Robinhood. He is Bogie. He works at my company where I’ve toiled away for ten years. He’s never noticed me.
He was dating a supermodel fashionista extraordinaire, but I’d heard they just broke up rather tempestuously. He is passionate. He is infamous. He is also famous. He is a part-time producer for movies as a hobby; a volunteer firefighter, a famous writer of thrillers, a grand master chef.
He is a vice president at my company; he is rarely here because of traveling the world on his book tour. They keep him around for marketing purposes. He lures new clients. He is a big attraction. He is sex on a stick. He is a passionate swarthy sex-god of a man.
I dream about him night and day. Everyone – at least all the woman in my office and all my girlfriends do, too. He is a fantasy.
He can’t be for real. Real mean aren’t like this.
Except…I look up from my cubicle.
And he is walking right towards me.
Gloria stares too and stops talking.
And it takes A LOT for her to just shuddup.
So I’m at work, still, on my project, typing ferociously, and as he gets closer and closer I’m now piling up in sweat. I’m now biting my nails. I am now done typing. He sees me watching him walk towards me.
It’s been real, Gloria says. I better let you get back to it. She is such a cream puff wasteland. She’s been in my cubicle for the past hour and a half complaining about her uber-rich over-bred over-stuffed beau, Victor, and about the new supercharged SUV he’d just bought her in the wrong color. It’s an off-off-off white, when she really just wanted white.
Gloria is a spoiled woman who was/is/someday-in-this-century supposed to inherit millions from her Aunt Ermengarde. When Ermy never died in the 80’s, Gloria decided to go to college, which was a good idea because now Ermy is an octogenarian, still hanging on by a barely-lifelorn roadhouse thread.
Gloria recently decided to start dating someone rich and fancy to fit her inexhaustible shopping habit and uber-charged supercilious lifestyle. And now that Gloria’s dating Victor, she’s now hoping to also inherit millions from his family. (When they got promised-to-be-engaged, she raved and oohed-and-aahed over pictures of his four-story mansion of a house. Even though there were NONE of him.) She tells me it’s always good to have a backup plan.
Gloria is now the caretaker of her Aunt Ermy, which, needless to say, is sort of making Gloria a good person, albeit slowly. So now what am I going to complain about to my friend, Jazhette? Since nothing interesting ever seems to happen to me. I seem to find myself living vicariously through Gloria's richly extravagant life.
I am still not sure why Gloria and I are friends. It might have to do with the fact that nobody else likes her in GirlLand and I’m too sweet and too full of savoir faire to be a meanie to her, like everyone else is. Sometimes I just feel sorry for her. But she can be quite a bore and a tarty blow-hard bitch. The Magnus Opus of infantileness extremes of the world.
So now Wilder’s at my desk station, Gloria’s just left in a flurry of overdone perfume (Este Lauder), and I’m now flustered, sweatrolls farkle down my back, I wipe my brow as nonchalantly as possible and look up at him.
I’m sure I resemble a placid blank-faced cow, hopefully sans the cud-chewing numbness. I hope he doesn’t think that I am wearing all that over-the-top perfume. Este Lauder is not quite who I am. I am more of a Vera Wang kind of perfume.
My cubicle neighbor, Macie Blanders, on the other side of my work station, stops smacking her bubblegum to eavesdrop. This is quite a big deal. Extravaganza to the fullest.
Hiya, he says.
Now I can hear Macie typing madhouse-galore on her computer, she’s perhaps IM’ing everyone in the office about Wilder actually speaking to me. Etc etc.
I can just imagine what everyone’s thinking. Why her? Why NOT me? What does she have that I don’t have? Well, possibly more sweat than: a Chinese sewing manufacturer’s sweatshop, a tax accountant’s armpits, and the inimitable Sweathogs of the 70’s!
All I can do is gulp.
Boy, I feel cheesy, grubby, about twelve years old, looking up at this moviestar hotness glamourama dude, I feel grittiness; really, I feel like a kid in a candy store without coinage.
So then I just grin. It’s all I can do. Gulp and grin. I cannot speak. I’m in whimsical distress, sort of on the fence between golden parachute joy and bitter embroiled hell. Here’s this gorgeous candy and I have no wherewithal to buy it. I have no funds. My soul is normally a parade, but it’s on strike, and so’s my brain.
My Brain? Zip-oid. Nada. Zipland. KAPUT. Over and out!
You’re Jacy Yates, right? He says. Such a golden enriched smooth voice. Such a joy to hear erupt from those luscious lips of his.
Gulp. I go.
I nod. So now I’m queasy, sick, really. My face goes green, I’m sure. I clutch my stomach. I have to hold in my urpiness, a burp about to burble from my boiler-of-a-face. But I think I still have this shit-eating grin plastered on my now greenish-gurgly urpoid face.
Are you alright? He sits in the vacant stale chair in my cubicle. Nobody’s sat there for eons. Nobody comes to talk to me, just Gloria, but she’s usually pacing when she comes over, her crazoid bloody-bore antics, always about her blow-hard self. Self-absorbed that she is. And she is usually complaining about something "wretched." The divine blasphemy of her life.
She has a lot of anger and adult angst.
Don’t we all.
Um, I sort of mumble. But I can just nod.
You okay? He leans in and looks into my face. He’s so close and I breathe in the smoky scent of him.
But. It's too much for me to handle. Now I just want him to leave. I can feel the curious eyes of everyone in the office looking at us. Eyeballs boring into our backs. I do not want or need this kind of attention. I’m not used to it, for one. I’m not going to like the myriads of queries from everyone as soon as he leaves. They’ll be like, what does HE a supergod want with YOU a mere peon?
It will be like a SPIKE in my neon-thwarted stock. My stock is up. I've never in my life had this happen. Juiciness of life usually just skips over me and blunders onto the next cubicle mate. And my stock is usually half-penny-ness.
It’s okay. I know I’m a peon. I’m fine with it. I’ve been one all my life. I’m not ready to NOT be one, not just yet.
He hands me an envelope. This is for you, he says with a white-teeth gleaming smile.
I swoon. I know I am such a loon. I think I smile, but it might look like a grimace.
I reach over for it and I tear at the corners of this envelope. My mouth is dry, I am speechless. I can’t even thank him properly!
What does he want?
What’s in the envelope?
Did I win the lottery? Oh yeah, I don’t remember even buying a lottery ticket.
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